


A Study in Being Non-Ordinary

by under_a_grey_cloud



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, M/M, Male/Male sex, Mentioned Lestrade - Freeform, Moriarty is Alive, Sex, Sherlock Holmes on a Case, Some Humor, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, mrs hudson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-01-07 14:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 58,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18412085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_grey_cloud/pseuds/under_a_grey_cloud
Summary: What would “ordinary” life be like between Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty?Is such a concept possible?I don't know. Maybe I’ll find out.





	1. Sex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheWrath_Of_TheLion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWrath_Of_TheLion/gifts).



Sherlock was in a very bad mood. He’d spent the early morning hours following a lead that, for once, didn’t pan out. He’d taken out his anger on graffiti, shooting the work of one of his favorite artists. It was not satisfying. The graffiti was on a brick wall, and, as he’d damn well known, the bullet ricocheted off the brick and barely missed him. He was half-heartedly hoping it wouldn’t. The Chinese restaurant was bad enough that he’d walked out after his first bite, leaving a few bills on the table before he left. He had no idea if he’d left too little money or too much, and didn’t care.

 

At this hour it took forever to find a taxi, which Sherlock took as a personal attack and did not appreciate at all. It was past 3:00 am when he arrived home, and again, he’d thrown a handful of money at the cabbie, not caring if he’d grossly underpaid or overpaid. _Idiot idea, money. Bartering makes so much more sense, although assuming anything in the world makes any sort of sense is absolutely inane. The sort of thought ordinary people have. Have I descended that low?_ He kicked his mind palace and unlocked the door to 221B.

 

He clomped up the stairs as loudly as possible, taking small comfort in the thought of waking Mrs. Hudson. Not a sound. _The woman sleeps like a bloody brick._ Which reminded him of the brick wall which had been covered, which was still covered, with graffiti.

 

Turning on the lights wasn’t necessary. He had a headache already. He felt his way through the rooms he knew so well, scattering clothing as he went. By the time he’d reached his bedroom, he was clothed only in socks and pants, which quickly dropped to the floor.

 

As he fell into bed, Sherlock sensed his pillow was unusually lumpy and uncomfortable. He tugged at the other pillow. No joy. He tugged hard, his hand slipped, and felt it connect with something much harder.

 

“What the bloody hell?” said a familiar voice.

 

“I thought you were my pillow!”

 

“Your _pillow?”_

 

Silence filled the next few seconds after which, seemingly against their will, the two men began to chuckle, which turned into uncontrollable laughter.

 

When they finally calmed down, the not-pillow growled “Are you insane? You’ve given me a black eye, you idiot. I’ve been mistaken for many things, but never a pillow. Perhaps my belly would suit better?”

 

“You’ve gained a pound and a half,“ said Sherlock. “Hardly enough for a suitable pillow. You’re so, so _small._ ”

 

“Excuse my size, darling. If you must, blame my parents, though I’d vastly prefer you never mention them.”

 

Sherlock was growing tired of being stumped. “What the hell are you doing in my bed? And why do you have my pillow?”

 

“It smells of you. You were so extraordinary late coming home, burying my face in your pillow was my only option.”

 

“Option for what?”

 

“Smelling you, my dear imbecile. I thought you were a consulting criminal. Surely you’ve figured out the situation by now.”

 

Sherlock laid on his back, his head resting on the unsatisfactory pillow.

 

“I assume it would be pointless to ask why you are in my bed, occupying my pillow.”

 

“Not at all, my dear,” Moriarty answered, gently testing his soon to be black eye. It was very painful. “As I assumed you would have deduced, I’m here because I missed you. I assumed that no matter what ungodly hour you came home, you'd eventually end up in your bed.”

 

“And that explains your presence how?”

 

“My. You are in poor shape tonight, my dear. I’ve already told you. I missed you.”

 

“Why on earth would you miss me?”

 

“Because I was lonely, and yours is the only company doesn’t bore me to death.”

 

“Then why are you not dead?” Sherlock asked. “It’s quite late.”

 

“Your powers of deduction are pathetic. I fell asleep.”

 

Sherlock sighed. “Can I have my pillow back now?”

 

“No. As I _said,_ it smells quite pleasantly of you.”

 

“I smell of myself more than my pillow smells of me.”

 

“Really?” Moriarty said with more than a touch of sarcasm. He turned toward Sherlock’s face and inhaled deeply. “You have a point, darling.” He pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, as if he were kissing a distant relative. Sherlock’s brilliant brain turned off immediately as returned and deepened the kiss.

 

“Finally,” Moriarty murmured inaudibly. The kiss continued until they both had to come up for air.

 

“You still haven’t satisfactorily explained why you are in my bed.”

 

“If you haven’t figured it out by now, I despair of your future.” Moriarty stopped kissing and began to slide down Sherlock’s body. He gently bit each nipple, which elicited a small sigh. He continued moving down, carefully avoiding the genitals. He gently pushed Sherlock’s body up slightly, until his tongue touched Sherlock’s rim. Moriarty slowly licked the entirety of the small circle, before inserting his tongue in the hole. Sherlock gasped, involuntarily. When Moriarty felt an undeniable tightness, he slipped his tongue out and licked his way toward Sherlock’s penis, which was now as hard as a steel rod. He took it in his mouth, taking his time, until he felt Sherlock had reached the point of no return.

 

Sherlock moaned involuntarily, and began to move away.

 

“Not yet, honey.” Moriarty raised Sherlock’s thighs and entered him slowly. He was afraid he might cause pain, but his tongue had been preparation enough. He fucked Sherlock harder and faster than he had planned, and all too soon found himself slipping out and lying panting and sweating on top of Sherlock. After a while he slid to his partner’s side, enjoying how his head fit neatly into the space between Sherlock’s shoulder and jaw.

 

Moriarty was almost asleep when he heard Sherlock cough, trying to speak.

 

“Ah, uh, it seems I must ask you a question.”

 

“What?” Moriarty asked, sleepy and annoyed.

 

“It’s just that, well,” Sherlock paused, unused to being at a loss for words. “Was that, uh, normal?” he asked.

 

“Normal? Normal for what?”

 

 _God, how I despise these conversations,_ Sherlock thought.

 

“Was it normal for,” Sherlock paused, hating himself. “Normal for sex?” he finally uttered.

 

“God, no. Was it normal for you?” Moriarty responded, increasingly annoyed at being interrogated when he was on the verge of sleep.

 

Sherlock was glad it was dark, and Moriarty couldn’t see him blush. “Normal for, ah, for sexual relations?”

 

His partner laughed. “So you really were a virgin?”

 

“No, no. Of course not. I mean, naturally I’m not completely inexperienced. Not at all. But, ah, this was my first time with a man.”

 

“My dear Sherlock. No, that was in no way normal for sex with a man. It was probably the best sex I’ve ever had, and, of course, I only have relations with men.”

 

“But I, I hardly did anything at all,” Sherlock replied, bemused.

 

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

 

Sherlock turned a deeper red, wondering if it was possible for him to glow with radioactivity. “Of course.”

 

“Then you did plenty. Next time, it’s your turn.” Moriarty huffed, thinking of virginity with a man. “Although, I suppose, in a way, I was a virgin, too.”

 

“ _You?_ How so? You seemed very, uh, very experienced.”

 

Moriarty snorted. “Experienced with sex with a man? Of course. Experienced with sex with a man I love? Never.”

 

“But you’re a psychopath. And I’m a high-functioning sociopath. We’re not able to experience love.”

 

“That may be true of ordinary psychopaths and sociopaths, but since when have we ever been ordinary?”

 

“True. You’re quite brilliant, in your own way.”

 

“Yes, I know. Now will you please let me go to sleep?”

 

Sherlock smiled. Moriarty had already rolled onto his side and was already gently snoring.

 

“Damn,” Sherlock thought. “I forgot to ask him about spooning.”

 

Sherlock Holmes had very little experience with the life of the ordinary. But he thought he could manage this. He curled his body around Moriarty’s, kissed the top of his very disorganized hair, and pulled him tight.

 

His last thought as he drifted off was that maybe there was something to be said for ordinariness.

 


	2. Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Moriarty play another round of "The Great Game," this time just for fun.

Sherlock woke up smiling.

_What’s the matter with me? I never wake up smiling when I’m not on a case._

Then he looked at the other side of his bed. It was empty. Both good and bad.

_That’s an oxymoron. I never stoop to oxymorons. Not even first thing in the morning. Something must really be the matter with me._

He touched his forehead, testing for a fever.

His phone vibrated.

_I hate it when people text first thing in the morning. Even if it is eleven o’clock._

He picked up his phone.

 **Text:**  
_R U finally up?_  
_JM_

 **Text:**  
_Obviously. Why?_  
_SH_

 **Text:**  
_The game is on_  
_Yes, I know, that’s UR line_  
_JM_

 **Text:**  
_Child’s play today_  
_Too tired for new game_  
_Another round?_  
JM

 **Text:**  
_???_  
_SH_

 **Text:**  
_Think circle_  
_Find me_  
_JM_

 **Text:**  
_Else something sooo bad will happen_  
_JM_

 **Text:**  
_Toodles_  
_JM_

Sherlock was up in a flash. _Circles. Can’t be the London Eye. A giant Ferris Wheel is way too obvious._

He shouted “I won’t be needing breakfast” as he ran down the stairs.

“You won’t be getting any. I’m your—oh, what’s the use.“ Mrs. Hudson’s complaint went unlistened to and then unheard as Sherlock slammed the front door.

_Although sometimes Jim goes for the obvious/not obvious. Bloody hell. Another oxymoron? If this is what sex does to the brain, it’s not worth it._

Sherlock ran around the block in a circle. He passed the cafe next door. It was full of people drinking coffee. People spilling coffee. People talking. No doubt about inanities. Nothing out of the ordinary. No sirens, no Lestrade. _This is not a new round. It’s a completely different game. A very boring one._ Nevertheless, he continued to run, searching all the familiar landmarks.

_It’s not Mrs. Hudson. She’s fine. Fine as she’ll ever be._

He glanced at the sidewalk as he ran.

_No dead bodies. How disappointing. Although it could be argued that everyone on Baker Street can be considered dead. Or ordinary; same thing._

Most windows were open, it being a sunny day. None of them contained bodies being tossed out. Sherlock kept running. He continued to run until he was back at 221B. “Waste of time,” he muttered. He stopped and huffed. “I am never having sex again.”

 **Text:**  
_I’m not on Baker Street_  
_And yes you are_  
_JM_

 **Text:**  
_Shut up_  
_SH_

 _Wait. How could I have missed this?_ A poster for the Cirque de Soleil was tacked to the tree by his front door. It was being held at the Open Air Theatre, 0.9 miles from Baker Street. There was even a matinee. A 10-minute walk for ordinary people. Sherlock arrived six minutes later. There were many shortcuts between his home and Regent Park. Including quite a few through private property.

“Quickly. A ticket to the matinee.”

“Sorry, sir. The box office closed ten minutes ago.”

“Did you not hear me? **A ticket to the matinee**.”

“The show is already in progress. There’s another show at eight o’clock tonight. You can purchase the tickets right here, sir. Sir? Sir, come back. The box office is closed!”

Sherlock scanned for an empty seat in the very full house.

_The stage is round. The hula hoop around the ridiculous clown is round. Quite a lot of round. But no Jim. Of course not. When would he ever sit anywhere but the first row, with the best view?_

“Excuse me. This seat is occupied. Please don’t stand in front of me. You’re blocking my view.”

“I’m aware. I need to finish scanning the first row and your seat has the best viewing access.”

“Usher, over here. First row center. Please remove this gentleman standing in front of my seat.”

_Definitely not here. Maybe he’s got something planned for later in the performance._

A well-built man in a uniform appeared next to Sherlock.

“Sir, if you don’t move, I shall have to forcibly remove you from the premises.”

Sherlock sat down on the floor.

“I assume I am no longer blocking anyone’s view.”

“Sir, you can’t just—“

“Shhhh,” said quite a few members of the audience. “Get out of the way,” they said to the usher.

 _I’m not paid enough for this,_ the usher thought. He gave up and left in search of the manager. Who was conveniently home with the flu.

Sherlock sat impatiently through act after act. Even the balloons were ovals, not circles. His eye perked up when the aerial show began. _Yes! This would be exactly the sort of thing Jim would do. Pay someone to knock the aerialist off the tightrope._

Sadly, the aerialists completed their act without disturbance.

_This is becoming ridiculous. If the main attraction in the circle doesn’t go wrong, nothing will._

He stood up and ran past the people in the first row. He bumped into the usher on the way out. The usher ignored him. He ran past the box office. The ticket taker ignored him.

 **Text:**  
_Not circus_  
_Lots of kids_  
_Big circle_  
_JM_

Sherlock slammed his head with his fist. It was The London Eye after all.

He hailed the first taxi he saw.

“London Eye.”

“Aye. You’re already in London,” the cabbie responded in an almost unintelligible accent.

“Yes. The London Eye. As in, the big Ferris Wheel?”

“Oh. Why d’in’t you say so?”

_Just my luck to flag down the stupidest cabbie in London._

Sherlock threw a handful of bills at the driver. “Drive fast.”

The taxi burned rubber as it drove away.

Sherlock arrived rather quickly at the tourist attraction. He jumped out of the taxi before it had stopped and ran to the queue. Which was longer than usual, probably because of the massive police presence.

Sherlock pushed his way through the police.

“Get out of here,” one of them said. “This is about to become a crime scene.”

Sherlock had to laugh. _About to become a crime scene._ “Detective Inspector! Out of my way!” he yelled, flashing one of Lestrade’s badges as he pushed his way through. He took a mini-telescope from his pocket, looked up at the top of the Ferris Wheel, and sighed. Finally. Moriarty was casually dangling a child over the side of his cart.

 **Text:**  
_Took you long enough_  
_Occam’s Razor, Dunce_  
_JM_

 **Text:**  
_I see U._  
_Let the kid go_  
_SH_

 **Text:**  
_Really?_  
_Might be a painful landing_  
_JM_

 **Text:**  
_Idiot_  
_Let him sit back down_  
_SH_

The crowd looked up, eyes glued to the dangling child.

“Out of the way. Now. Move or we’ll arrest the lot of you!”

A child fell from the top of the Ferris Wheel to the concrete below. The crowd screamed “Noooo!” as the child fell to the ground.

The police ran to the child and stopped. They looked bewildered.

“There’s no blood, mum,” an officer said, looking up from the ground to his superior.

“Of course there’s no blood, you fool. There’s no child either. It’s a fucking doll,” the detective cried, louder than she’d meant to. The crowd ooh’d and ahh’d and ran to take a look at the doll.

“Get the hell out of here, everyone. It’s still a crime scene.”

Another detective shouted at an employee. “Turn The Eye back on. Slowly. Give the passengers time to get out safely.”

It took forever for the riders to climb out of their carts. Most of them looked stunned, in a state of shock, no doubt. Sherlock watched. When Moriarty’s cart reached the ground, it was empty. He heard a voice from behind.

“Total fail. Took you hours to get here, and I shudder to think what would have happened had that been a real child.”

Sherlock turned, ready to punch Moriarty in his good eye. Then he took a look around, especially at the crowd of police surrounding the doll. He knew when he was defeated.

“Good one, Jim. You’re lucky the doll didn’t fall on anyone’s head. You do know about velocity?”

Jim scoffed. “I have exceptional aim.”

“Remind me never to play soccer with you.”

“I never play soccer with anyone. You’re slipping, my dear. Our next game must be far more challenging, don’t you think?”

He took a good look at Sherlock. “You’re looking a bit peckish. Fancy a banana split?”

“I despise bananas.”

“Just a cone, then?” Moriarty stared longingly at the ice cream vendor. Sherlock remained silent. “Very well. Have it your way. I adore ice cream.” Moriarty disappeared and came back with a cone overflowing with white ice cream.

“Like a lick?” He stuck out his tongue, which was covered with ice cream. Sherlock drew his finger across Moriarty’s tongue and smudged the ice cream on the man's cheek. Moriarty used his own finger to remove the ice cream from his face. He licked his finger slowly. “Mmmm. Sometimes plain old vanilla really does the trick.”

“You’ve still got some on your cheek.”

“Do I? I have a black eye and a white cheek? I’ve got two of them, you know. White cheeks. Four, actually. Poor Sherlock. It must have been terribly tiring, running pointlessly around Baker Street and then to the quite ordinary Cirque de Soleil. My arm hurts. How does a nap strike you?”

Sherlock was tempted to strike Moriarty, but couldn’t contain a snort of laughter.

“Let’s take a taxi. My arm really is killing me. That doll was heavy. Remember, darling, when we wake up, it’s your turn. Taxi!” he called, getting into the first car in line, although there was a queue of people waiting ahead of them. “Ooopsies,” he added, as he dropped his ice cream cone on the floor of the taxi. “Oh well. I suppose that’s enough vanilla for today. I won’t be needing any later.”

Sherlock punched him in the arm.

“Ow! I told you my arm hurt.”

Sherlock smiled.


	3. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Moriarty attempt to discuss the meaning of love.

Sherlock and Moriarty woke in that foggy, almost stoned state that happens after waking from a nap. Not an ideal time to talk. Sherlock had proved himself very competent during the pre-nap sex, having previously researched the subject on his laptop. Still, they both felt uneasy. As if there were something each wanted to say to the other, but weren’t certain what it was.

 

Of course Moriarty, an inveterate talker, spoke first.

 

“So, darling, tell me. What is—(yawn)— love?”

 

“Mmmmmmmmm...” Sherlock muttered, still half asleep.

 

Moriarty punched him a little harder than necessary and shouted “Ouch!” His punching arm was still sore from hanging a life-sized doll from a Ferris Wheel cart.

 

“Ouch yourself!” Sherlock was now quite awake, and quite embarrassed for having said something so ridiculous. He had a tendency to say ridiculous things around Moriarty. Which annoyed him no end. Sherlock disliked speaking, and believed words should be used sparingly, only when absolutely necessary, and never when ridiculous.

 

Moriarty giggled. “How exactly does one ouch oneself?”

 

“Shut up. Why did you wake me? I was enjoying exploring the corners of my mind palace.”

 

“Turn around so I can see your face.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because it’s boring talking to your hair, however lovely those little curls of yours are.”

 

“I detest my curls.”

 

“Then why don’t you get a haircut?”

 

“Waste of time. They’ll just grow back.”

 

Sherlock turned around. He was feeling, well, he wasn’t sure how he was feeling. He was frustrated to be feeling anything at all. Feelings were a waste of brain space. Although he had to admit he enjoyed the feeling generated by looking at Moriarty’s face.

 

“I asked you ‘what is love?’ It was only several seconds ago. You can’t possibly have forgotten so quickly.”

 

“I don’t forget. I delete.”

 

“Have you deleted my question so quickly?”

 

“Love is allowing an extremely drowsy man awakened from a particularly pleasant dream to fall back asleep.”

 

“You want me to punch you again?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then quit being such a brat. Pardon the non-sequitor, but is it always so cold in here?”

 

Moriarty pulled the duvet up to his chin.

 

“Mmmmm,” said Sherlock, luxuriating in the warmth of the duvet. Moriarty grabbed it and shoved it to the end of the bed.

 

“Now we’re both freezing. Pull the bloody duvet back up.”

 

“You were falling back asleep.” Moriarty compromised by pulling the duvet up to their chests. “I’m not quite so inclined to talk about love anymore,” he quipped. “But I’m truly intrigued. What is this crazy little thing called love?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

Moriarty sighed. “You can be so very mundane. You’ve never heard of Queen?”

 

“Of course I have. Are you referring to Queen Elizabeth II, or an earlier Queen? Or perhaps to yourself, wearing the Queen’s clothes and crown? Which reminds me. There are easier ways to show off how you look in a crown.”

 

“I would die before I entered a Burger King, and I wouldn’t wear one of those hideous paper crowns to stop the world ending.”

 

“Which might be for the best.”

 

“Agreed. Are you going to answer my question or not?”

 

“Why on earth would I know anything about love?”

 

“Perhaps because we recently discussed the topic of a non-ordinary psychopath and a non-ordinary sociopath falling in love?” Moriarty secretly pulled the duvet up to his chin.

 

“Fine. Love. Unquantifiable. Impossible to define. It keeps changing. How can one define something that's constantly changing? It’s annoying. In fact, I’m on the verge of deleting love.”

 

“Would that make you stop loving me?”

 

“That’s the first interesting question you’ve asked since you woke me up. If I deleted the concept of love, would I still be capable of it? Would I still enjoy the taste of pineapple if I deleted it from my mind?”

 

“Pineapple hurts my tongue,” Moriarty pouted.

 

“Irrelevant. The logical answer is that I wouldn’t know whether I enjoyed pineapple until I ate it again. What an utter waste of time, deleting knowledge and then needing to collect it all over again. Do I really do that?”

 

“Sherlock, I was talking about love, not pineapples. I was serious. Treasure it. I am very rarely serious.”

 

“You’re always serious. Deadly serious.”

 

“True. I was referring to what I say, not what I do.”

 

“Fine. Just remember that even if I love you, I hate you, too.”

 

“Of course. And I would very much enjoy killing you.”

 

“All right then. What is love. I believe it’s what people call an emotion, but you already know that. I don’t have emotions. I am the last person you should ask about emotions.”

 

“But you love me,” Moriarty stated plainly. “It’s a fact. You like facts.”

 

“Correct. I love you. That is a fact. A fact that, right now, I wish I did not know.”

 

“Aww,” Moriarty pulled a face. “You don’t like loving me?” He raised his voice an octave. “Realllly???”

 

“What do _you_ think love is, Jim?”

 

“Evil.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “You are evil.”

 

“Undoubtedly. But you aren’t. Annoying, yes. Inscrutabley frustrating, yes. I could go on. But you aren’t evil.”

 

“I never said I was.”

 

“I suppose you think love is angelic, being on the side of the angels as you are. But how can one word, one specific word with one specific definition, have two meanings?”

 

Sherlock jumped out of bed, ran naked into the sitting room, and returned with a large book. He immediately jumped back in bed and covered himself with the duvet.

 

“Merriam-Webster, unfortunately. Watson stole my Oxford.” He shuffled through the pages and began reading aloud.

 

_“Love. Noun. Definition of love._

 

_“Strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties : maternal love for a child_

 

“Wrong. I despise Mycroft and neither of us is a mother, thus we do not have maternal love for a child.

_“Attraction based on sexual desire : affection and tenderness felt by lovers : After all these years, they are still very much in love._

 

“Partially wrong. We feel attraction and sexual desire for each other. I am unfamiliar with affection or tenderness. We professed to loving each other approximately eighteen hours ago, which is less than a day, much less years.

 

_“Affection based on admiration, benevolence, or common interests : love for his old schoolmates_

 

“Wrong. You killed your old schoolmate Carl Powers because he laughed at you, not because you loved him.

 

_“The object of attachment, devotion, or admiration : baseball was his first love”_

 

Sherlock scoffed. “Baseball?! Have you ever sat through a game of baseball? Jim? Nevermind. Useless question. Delete it.

 

_“A beloved person : DARLING — often used as a term of endearment_

 

“Wrong. You call everyone darling, generally as a term of derision. Boring. **Extremely**  boring.

 

_“Unselfish loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another : such as the fatherly concern of God for humankind_

 

“Enough. This is becoming a colossal waste of time.”

 

Sherlock threw the dictionary at the wall. It made a pleasing thud.

 

Silence.

 

“Jim?”

 

Silence interrupted by quiet snoring.

 

“Mrs Hudson! I require tea!”

 

This had no effect on Mrs Hudson, who was out shopping, but it was very effective in waking Moriarty.

 

“I’ve arrived at an answer. Love is not falling asleep while your partner is answering your question about the nature of love.”

 

“Alright,” Moriarty mumbled. “I’ll put on the kettle.” He got up and began to walk toward the kitchen, then thought better of it and put on his clothes instead.

 

“Why do we always stay at yours? I’ve been wearing these clothes since yesterday. They’re disgusting.”

 

“I hardly think eighteen and a half hours constitutes always.”

 

“Why are you so tall? Your clothes would look absurd on me.”

 

“Why are you so short? You could wear a pair of my pants. That would at least avoid used clothing touching your genitals.”

 

“They’d be much too loose. Tight. I meant tight. I’m going home to shower and change. And enjoy an inspiring view, a clean flat, and several pieces of nicotine gum that aren’t coated in dust.”

 

“There’s no need to sound like a petulant brat because I don’t keep your clothing at my flat.”

 

“As if I'd leave my Westwood suits in such a squalid - Where the hell are my shoes?”

 

“Wherever you took them off.”

 

Moriarty stormed out of the bedroom and, a few minutes later, slammed the door to the flat.

 

 _So that’s the definition of love. Inconsiderate selfishness._ Sherlock would not allow himself to entertain the thought that his “feelings” were hurt. Instead, he put on his dressing gown, applied three nicotine patches to his arm, and played loud, angry notes on the violin.

 

His feelings were hurt.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't know, "underpants" in the US are referred to as "pants" in the UK.


	4. Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Moriarty spend three disastrous days without speaking to each other.

It had been three days since Moriarty stormed out of Sherlock’s flat. They hadn’t seen each other since. These had not been the best three days in either each man’s life.

 

___ ~ ___ 

 

**Part One: Sherlock**

**Day One**

Sherlock was already bored by the time he woke up. Even his dreams had been boring. He lay in bed for several more minutes, hoping to fall back asleep. Boring dreams were better than boring reality. Finally he gave up, donned his dressing gown, dragged himself to the sitting room and plopped down his armchair.

 

“John?”

 

No reply.

 

“John?!”

 

Silence.

 

“John!!”

 

“ **MRS HUDSON!!!** ”

 

His landlady came running downstairs. “What’s wrong, dear?” she huffed, out of breath. “Did I hear you calling for John?”

 

“Possibly.”

 

“You know perfectly well that Dr. Watson hasn’t lived here for over two years. Are you feeling alright? You’re not taking those nasty drugs again, I hope.” She began fussing with pillows and picking up a collection of used take-out containers from the floor. “Honestly. This is a flat, not a rubbish dump.”

 

“Do you subscribe to a daily newspaper?”

 

“That’s what you were going on about? As it happens, I subscribe to two. _The Daily Mail_ and _The Daily Mirror._ I like to keep informed on both conservative and liberal news.”

 

“Useless. _The Daily Mail_ requires an average reading age of ten. _The Daily Mirror_ features the abominable “Daily Mirror Chicken.” And news is news, no matter how it’s interpreted. Fetch me a copy of something worth reading. _The Times_ _, The Daily Telegraph,_ and  _The Independent_ will do nicely.”

 

“There’s a newsagent around the corner, dear.”

 

“I’m aware. That’s why I called for you. And on your way back, I’d like a pot of tea.”

 

Mrs Hudson stopped tidying, tightened the belt on her brightly coloured flowered dressing gown, and chided Sherlock in a strict but motherly fashion.

 

“I reminded you just yesterday that I am your landlady, not your servant.”

 

“Nonsense. You’re one of my best friends. Now please get a move on. I’m bored. And while you’re at it, pick up a decent dressing gown. Yours gives me a headache.”

 

Mrs Hudson sighed, a sound which Sherlock could have easily identified from several blocks away.

 

“As it happens, I need to pick up a dozen eggs and a bottle of milk at the grocer’s. I suppose I could stop by the newsagent on the way home. I’ll bring you a cup of tea. A paper cup from the shop. Not a pot.”

 

“Why are you still here?”

 

“Do you expect me to go shopping in my dressing gown?”

 

“I don’t care if you do your shopping naked. I require newspapers and tea now. A few biscuits would be nice.”

 

Mrs Hudson almost told him to get them himself, but she knew it would be a waste of breath. She left the flat and headed upstairs to change and collect her purse.

 

Sherlock began tapping his fingers on the armrest. He was curious how many times he could tap in sixty seconds. Two hundred and forty, but he wasn’t really trying. 

 

**Day Two**

Sherlock woke up seriously bored. He didn’t try to go back to sleep because he’d decided that sleep was boring. He was too bored to get out of bed and get his violin. He was too bored to bother with another nicotine patch. He was too bored to make tea. He was much too bored to bother calling for Mrs Hudson again. He was too bored to eat tea or biscuits anyhow. He began to suspect his boredom might stem from another cause. Missing Moriarty, for example. This thought was not boring, but he immediately deleted it. The thought immediately returned.

 

Sherlock noticed the dictionary, still lying by the wall where he’d thrown it the day before. He enjoyed reading the dictionary. When nothing else worked, it was a reliable standby. Of course he’d read it through many times over, but he always seemed to find something new. Normally he read in alphabetical order, picking up from where he’d left off. However he had no desire to look at the last word he’d read. So he began again with the A’s, and was almost immediately rewarded with “aardwolf.” An excellent word. He continued reading happily until he came to “adoration.” He gave the dictionary a very nasty look, as if it had intentionally placed such an offensive word so close to aardwolf. He threw the dictionary at the wall again, aiming for the same spot he’d hit last time, and missing by a good three or four centimetres.

 

He scowled and looked for something else to throw. He tossed his bedside glass of water at another wall, not wanting to ruin the dictionary. The glass made a musical tinkling sound, scattering wet pieces along the siding. _Tinkling. I need something more satisfying than tinkling._ He looked around the room, got out of bed, picked up the bedside table and prepared to aim it at the wet spot on the wall. The contents of the table’s small drawer, which Sherlock had forgotten about, fell onto the floor next to the bed. Several crushed empty packets of cigarettes, complete with tobacco crumbs, a broken syringe, quite a few used tissues from several months ago when Sherlock had developed a bad head cold, pens which he recalled tossing forcibly into the drawer because they were out of ink, a sheet of paper covered with scribbles that started out very light and faded to nothing, doubtless related to the empty pens, and various coins, bottle caps, and other detritus.

 

 _This room is useless._ Sherlock moved to the sitting room. He started with the bookshelf, repeatedly throwing books at a stain on the wall. He came close several times, but just short of a bulls-eye. Next came a lamp, which didn’t move very far because Sherlock had forgotten it was plugged into the wall outlet. Even more frustrating was the tinkling sound the bulb made when it broken. _“I can’t stand all this bloody tinkling. What a stupid word. What a stupid sound. If I wanted to make a tinkling sound, I’d play the triangle from the 47 instruments in an orchestra._ He proceeded to delete the word “tinkling.”

 

The lack of hitting a bulls-eye with a book gave Sherlock an idea. He found a Sharpie on his desk and drew a target on the wall, next to the bullet holes that had been there so long they had become part of the wallpaper. His desk held a plethora of items well-suited to improvised darts. Or so he thought. He sharpened all the pencils he could find, and began throwing them at the target. Unfortunately, the pencils were not as well-balanced as darts, as well as being different lengths. He collected the pencils from the floor and sharpened them again until they were all approximately the same length. He threw the improved darts at the target. Of course, not being darts, they didn’t stick to the target. Still, each pencil left a small graphite mark on the wall. Sherlock was rather pleased. He’d hit the target every time, and even came very close to a bulls-eye. “Yes!” He collected the pencils and began another round.

 

“Sherlock! What on earth are you doing? You’re throwing pencils at the wall, stark naked, in the sitting room, and you haven’t even bothered to shut the door to the flat. Anyone could see you!” Mrs Hudson stood in the outer hallway, seemingly glued to the spot.

 

Sherlock turned to face Mrs Hudson, providing her with a full-frontal view of his naked body.

 

“They could, but they won’t. As you so considerately reminded me yesterday, John no longer lives here and I’m not expecting visitors, so it’s very unlikely anyone but you would see me.”

 

“But I don’t want to see you!” Mrs Hudson cried. “Not absolutely naked, throwing pencils at my wall.”

 

“Then don’t look at me.”

 

“It’s difficult not to, dear. Have you always been this pale? You look poorly. You need to get out in the sun more. It’s not healthy to stay cooped up in this flat for days on end.”

 

Sherlock heard the front doorbell ring. A **tinkling** ring. Ms Hudson went downstairs to open the door.

 

“Martha, my dear.” A disembodied female voice floated up the stairs. “It’s delightful to see you again. I’ve brought the fabric you asked for, along with some biscuits for tea. Oh my! Oh my goodness!! I assume this young man is your tenant? Is he a nudist?”

 

Mrs Hudson slammed the door to Sherlock’s flat shut behind her.

 

“I’m so sorry you had to see that, Jane. Yes, I’m afraid that was my tenant.”

 

“Is he always like that?” Jane was sputtering with laughter.

 

“Oh no, dear. Usually he’s much worse.”

 

The two women went upstairs to measure fabric and drink tea. Sherlock realised it was actually very cold in his flat, and took a long hot shower. From which he emerged as pink as a sunburn, his eyes obscured by dripping wet curls. He went back to bed and covered his entire body, including his head, with the duvet. He spent the rest of the day there, thinking, hands tented on his chest. When it became too dark to see, he ordered in from the closest Chinese restaurant that delivered. He remembered to put on his dressing gown before answering the door and paying for the take-out. He set the food on the bedside table, minus its drawer. He then retrieved the dictionary, which was becoming a bit worse for wear, and prepared to enjoy an evening of reading in the glow of the streetlight and eating in bed.

 

He enjoyed neither. He was uncharacteristically annoyed that he already knew every word in the dictionary, and he kept dropping pieces of Chinese food on his bed. He gave up and tossed what remained of the dinner onto the floor. He considered moving to the sitting room and yelling at the telly, decided it was too much trouble, and attempted to fall asleep, trying to ignore the pieces of food stuck to his chest. _What a waste of a perfectly good shower_ , he mused angrily, as he slipped into fitful dreams of flying Chinese food and chopsticks, and walking on sharp pencils protruding from his mattress.

 

**Day Three**

Sherlock woke beyond bored. He didn’t understand what was wrong. He felt his forehead to see if he was running a fever. He wasn’t. He was angry that he didn’t know what he was feeling, angrier than he was experiencing a feeling in the first place, and angrier still that a part of him did know what he was feeling but he wasn’t about to listen to it.

 

As usual, when he was faced with an extremely difficult situation, he turned to drugs. Generally they helped him think. This morning, he hoped they would help him not to think. He looked at the pieces of Chinese food stuck to his body, considered a shower, and decided it was too much trouble. He picked them off one at a time and put on his dressing gown.

 

His first attempt at mood alteration via chemicals was to apply ten nicotine patches. He immediately felt jittery, convinced this was due to the beginning of nicotine poisoning. In fact, he felt jittery because he was still anxious about having feelings that he refused to consider. He immediately pulled off the patches, leaving ugly red marks where they had been attached to his skin. Nicotine patches are intended to be removed slowly and carefully, not ripped off as quickly as possible. Sherlock grabbed his laptop and researched nicotine poisoning, ignoring the minor side effects when he read that extreme nicotine overdose could lead to coma, oxygen deprivation, and possible brain damage. He had been too frightened to read further, in which case he would have discovered that wearing too many nicotine patches for less than a minute wouldn’t cause any deleterious effects at all. In fact, minor skin damage was most likely the only effect he would experience. Sherlock was generally unconcerned with damage to his body, but his brain was precious.

 

He returned to bed, convinced that life was no longer worth living. He was going to slip into a coma, stop breathing, and wake up an ordinary moron. It didn’t occur to him that if that if he stopped breathing and was not resuscitated, he would die. He was concerned only about brain damage. Normally it would be obvious that removing the nicotine patches almost immediately had reduced his risk factor to zero. But Sherlock’s generally brilliant mind was consumed with such terror that rational thought was impossible. He jumped out of bed, certain that if he remained prone, he would immediately fall into a coma.

 

He looked around the floor, found and put on the robe he’d been living in for the past few days. He was shivering with cold, which wasn’t included in the symptoms of nicotine poisoning, but he reasoned it might be. Actually he was cold because his flat was cold. But he’d frightened himself into a panic attack. _What prevents a coma?_ He had already solved this problem by removing the nicotine patches seconds after he’d put them on, but panic attacks make it impossible to think clearly, even for Sherlock. He never panicked. He was never even anxious. He attributed his lack of ability for logical thought to nicotine overdose. However, one small thought managed to penetrate his panic-struck brain. A stimulant would counteract the tendency to slip into a coma. He ran to the kitchen.

 

Sherlock grabbed a table knife, ran to the sitting room and pulled the couch away from the wall. He used the knife to pry loose the section of flooring he had previously removed, altered, and replaced. He felt around under the floorboards, first feeling a pack of cigarettes, which he shoved aside. He felt around blindly, having forgotten that the use of a torch would make this much easier. _Did I finish my stash?_ Finally he felt a small plastic baggie. For the first time since he’d applied the patches, he let out a sigh of relief. He carefully removed the package, replaced the floorboard, and pushed the couch back into position. He returned to the kitchen, removed the baking soda from the refrigerator, dug his hand into the bottom, thus covering it with baking soda, and removed a syringe. Three minutes later, he was back in his bedroom playing the violin, all thoughts of nicotine poisoning, as well as just about anything else, having disappeared.

 

The problem was he kept on playing the violin. For hours. And then for hours more. He was furious when he was forced to take a toilet break. He was even more furious when his mouth became so parched he was forced to take a drink of water. Not wanting to waste time, he ran to the bathroom and drank from the faucet. He continued playing the violin, taking breaks for additional doses of cocaine when necessary. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in days. Weeks. Years. Maybe ever. He played, slow and comforting music while the cocaine peaked, loud and frantic music when it began to wear off. This cycle continued until well past dark, until he eventually fell down onto his bed, a depleted zip-locked baggie in his dressing gown pocket, clutching his violin like a teddy bear. He smiled broadly for several seconds until he fell into the sleep of the dead. He wasn’t awake long enough to be aware of the irony.

 

___ ~ ___

 

**Part Two: Moriarty**

**Day One**

Moriarty woke up feeling out sorts. This was very unusual, so much so that he thought perhaps he was still asleep, having an unpleasant dream. He always woke up feeling full of energy, ready to plan a new day of death and deceit. Not today. His purple silk pajamas, specially designed to wick sweat, were wet and sweaty. He attempted to luxuriate in his fine bedding, which had cost over £80,000. Moriarty wondered if the decimal point really made a difference, but he’d never admit it. Only the best. Even if the best was based on an internet description. Still, he was comfortable, at least physically. Psychologically, he wished he could spend the entire day in bed. He wondered if Sherlock felt the same. Then he wondered why he was thinking of Sherlock, and forced himself to get out of bed.

 

 _A good hot shower ought to do the trick._ He spent at least 20 minutes bombarding himself in deliciously hot water. Painfully hot, he admitted. He’d had his shower modified to deliver the hottest water in London. Not exactly environmentally responsible, but people died anyhow. He recalled a conversation, a very short conversation, about the subject. With Sherlock. At a pool. Feeling an unwanted sensation of pleasure begin to arise, he immediately turned off all thoughts of the consulting detective. After he could no longer stand the pain of the hot water, he turned it off, too. Turning on the cold water might have been a better idea, after having spent most of the shower thinking about Sherlock, but Moriarty was not about to admit _that_.

 

He used his 100% Turkish cotton towels to dry off. Once dry, he put on his wool/cashmere blend bathrobe, feeling much better. Not that he’d admit it, but it was a women’s bathrobe. Moriarty found the top of the line women’s robe to be more comfortable than the men’s. It was softer and complimented his physique. The men’s robe had a tendency to make him look as if he’d immediately gained 20 pounds as soon as he’d tied the belt. The real reason Moriarty preferred the women’s robe is that he secretly occasionally enjoyed the thought of wearing women’s clothing. But not even his sub-conscious was aware of that. Moriarty was very good at hiding things, even from himself.

 

He made himself a pot of tea and leaned back in his comfortably soft recliner, sipping tea and reading _The Times_ _, The Daily Telegraph,_ and  _The Independent,_ all of which he subscribed to. He was deeply involved in one of the financial sections when he heard a muted _Bohemian Rhapsody_ ring tone. His kill phone was ringing. He had gone to considerable trouble to ensure that the phone would bounce off different cell towers across the world every five seconds, using different cell towers for each call.

 

He jumped eagerly from his chair and ran to the bedroom, where he fished out the phone from inside one of his thick hiking socks. He despised hiking but liked the socks.

 

"Moriarty.

"Certainly. Not a problem.

"I shall require today's remuneration no later than 6 pm GMT.

"My pleasure, as always."

 

He hung up.

 

Zhao was a repeat client. He always paid reliably, promptly, and in exquisite loose leaf Chinese tea.

 

Moriarty used his kill phone to place one call.

 

“Liu? Moriarty.

"Disposal required. Leung Chun-ying’s son-in-law.

"Yes, _the_ Leung Chun-ying.

“Hong Kong, of course.

“One more stupid question and I shall cease using your services.

"Excellent."

 

Moriarty wasn’t serious about giving up on Liu. The man lived up to his name, which loosely translated to “kill, destroy.” He made a habit of keeping his operatives on their toes. Generally, a kill call seriously boosted his mood. Today, it was no more interesting than a robo-call. In fact the only call that would interest him would be a call from Sherlock. Which thought he immediately shoved into a dusty corner of his mind.

 

Moriarty waited impatiently for the confirmation call, and even more impatiently for the tea delivery. He considered texting Sherlock to come share a pot of tea, then immediately changed his mind. At least fourteen times. He listened to Rossini's _A Thieving Magpie_ while he waited. He probably would have listened to it at least fourteen times as well, even if it meant listening in his sleep in his recliner, but the confirmation call arrived during the first play. Interrupted, Rossini was ruined. He switched to his playlist of all 224 Bach cantatas. The special delivery packet arrived before the second cantata had finished playing. The tea was Panda Dung! Moriarty was delighted. Panda Dung tea was his absolute favourite tea, despite its origins, as the name revealed.

 

Moriarty took his time preparing the tea. Hurrying would ruin the flavour. He tried to enjoy the anticipation, but ended up daydreaming about Sherlock until the water in the kettle had evaporated and the stench returned him to reality. He boiled water again, in his second favourite kettle. He searched for a suitable teapot, unconsciously looking for one that reminded him of Sherlock. Of course, none of his teapots reminded him of Sherlock. He doubted that Sherlock even owned a teapot. He probably poured hot water straight from the kettle into a cup containing a teabag.

 

 _Stop thinking about Sherlock! But then again, had the man really done anything to justify my leaving so abruptly yesterday? I don’t know and I don’t care!_ Moriarty was aware he sounded like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum. Fortunately, only his brain had heard. He chose a teapot at random, added the appropriate amount of tea leaves and buds, and slowly covered the tea with boiling water. He waited until the tea was the proper temperature, sipped it, and savoured it. Rather, he would have savoured it, had thoughts of a certain consulting detective not ruined his enjoyment.

 

Still, the tea was good. The chair was comfortable. The view was enchanting. Moriarty loved the time between very late afternoon and very early evening. It was impossible to pinpoint exactly when the sky turned from day to night. A puzzle which perhaps scientists could explain, but never in way that truly satisfied the soul. Moriarty wondered if psychopaths had souls. He wondered if ordinary people had souls. He wondered if souls really existed. He decided he didn’t care.

 

After finishing the tea, Moriarty developed a pounding migraine from having forgotten to eat all day, and went to bed. He immediately got up, removed his bathrobe, hung it on its hook, and went back to bed. He tried to appreciate his especially comfortable bedding. _It’s just bedding, idiot!_ He picked up a remote and pressed a button that turned off all the lights in the flat. He pressed another button that turned on the bedroom speakers and lowered the volume. He pressed a button in his head that threw the remote against the wall. Eventually, he fell into a light, fitful sleep. He did not wake refreshed.

 

**Day Two**

Moriarty was bored. He hated being bored. He thought about calling clients to see if anyone required his services. He felt ridiculous and immediately gave up on the idea. He had a reputation to uphold.

 

Moriarty’s second shipment of handmade tea arrived. He didn’t bother to read the label. He forced himself to make a pot, poured a cup, decided it tasted magnificent, and left it on the counter to go cold.

He decided he needed to get out of the house. He put on his grey pinstriped Westwood suit and immediately took it off. He put on his Jim from IT clothes instead, not bothering to leave his pants exposed. He was looking for Molly, and Molly would neither notice nor care.

 

He found her in the morgue.

 

“Molly! Hi. It’s been _ages_. How _are_ you?”

 

Molly shot him a glare that lent credence to the adage that looks could kill. _That would be soooo convenient. I don’t like to dirty my hands, but I doubt even I could dirty my eyes._

 

Molly interrupted his reverie. “What are **you** doing here?” she spat.

 

Moriarty lowered his voice several octaves. “I was wondering if you’d seen Sherlock lately.”

 

“I’ve been on holiday and haven’t seen him for weeks,” she replied angrily. “Why do you want to know?”

 

“Oh, no particular reason. That is, I had a question for him.”

 

“The answer is no,” Molly stated definitively.

 

Moriarty decided to quit while he wasn’t further behind.

 

“Okay, okay,” he replied, holding his hands in the air. “I was just wondering...”

 

“Get out of my morgue. Now.”

 

_Impressive. I didn’t know she had it in her. Perhaps I should have paid more attention in the past. I can always use another accomplice._

 

“As in, this moment. Immediately. Without hesitation.”

 

Moriarty walked out of the morgue. _Anger suits her._

 

Of course Moriarty knew exactly where he could find Sherlock. 221B. Sherlock never “took a walk” or “went for a stroll.” He went exactly where he wanted to be, or stayed in. _Not yet. Dignity is still a, still a, still a **thing!**_ he silently yelled at himself, then felt humiliated for yelling at himself with such poor vocabulary in the first place.

 

He caught a cab to 221B and strolled by the cafe next door. No Sherlock. What would he say, anyhow? _Fancy meeting you here. My dear Sherlock, what a charming surprise! I never thought-- I never **think** anymore **.** That’s the problem. _He caught a glance of Mrs Hudson a couple of blocks away. Even in his Jim from IT persona, he couldn’t risk it. He took a quick turn down an alley, emerged at the next street, and hailed a taxi. He opened the door quickly, jumped in, and slammed the door behind him. _I’m really getting sloppy. This can’t be allowed to continue, Sherlock or no Sh-_

 

“Oi. Mister. You goin’ anywhere, or you wanna pay to just sit in the back of my cab all day? Rate’s the same, either way.”

 

Moriarty gave the cabbie his address. He hoped they’d get stuck in an accident, roadwork, construction, anything to waste time. They didn’t. He opened the taxi door, handed the driver a wad of bills, said “thanks, mate” in an accent that sounded fake even to him, and entered his building. He took the lift to his loft, unlocked his flat, and took off his shoes. Then he sat. Staring at nothing. For a very long time. He looked at his watch. _Only 2 pm?!_

 

He could see two choices. Vegetate in front of the telly, or vegetate in bed. He chose the latter. He took three sleeping pills from an old bottle in the medicine cabinet, most likely expired, and considered taking another. He read the instructions on the prescription bottle and saw the maximum dose was one pill every six hours. He replaced the bottle, shed his Jim from IT clothes and threw them in the hamper. He put on his purple silk pajamas and got into bed,. He was snoring within fifteen minutes. He woke up eight hours later. The flat was pitch dark. He made his way to the bathroom, took another two sleeping pills, plus a third for good luck, and returned to bed. He woke in the middle of the night to find a wet, sticky spot on his pajamas. _God bloody dammit! What, am I a teenager now?! Fucking Sherlock!_ He blushed at his unintentional wishful statement, stripped off his pajamas, and fell back asleep.

 

**Day Three**

Having taken five sleeping pills the night before, Moriarty slept in. When he finally woke, he considered taking another one and going back to sleep, then wondered what was the matter with him. Up until three days ago, he had lived a deliciously dangerous life. There was nothing particularly dangerous about staying in and drinking tea, or going to St. Bart’s. Molly might be a pain in the neck, but she certainly wasn’t dangerous. The most risky action in his life lately had been taking expired sleeping pills. James Moriarty was a dangerous man. He revelled in danger. His every cell was made for danger. And he seemed to have expired three days ago.

 

He decided to give himself one more day. Tomorrow, if he was still bereft of all desire to get out of bed, he would either give in and call Sherlock, or find some dangerous way to do away with himself. He snorted derisively. Right. His demise would probably consist of slipping on a stray sock and breaking his neck while getting out of bed. Why was he so afraid to call Sherlock? Apparently the mere thought was more dangerous than getting out of bed. Why was he even worrying about this? Worry was an emotion, he reminded himself, and good little psychopaths did not **experience** emotions. He was a very good little psychopath.

 

Perhaps he wasn’t bored and worried and miserable. Perhaps he was experiencing what ordinary people called “relaxation.” He shuddered at the absolutely dreadful thought of becoming an ordinary person. If that were the case, he would scatter all his most slippery items of clothing on the floor next to his bed tonight, ensuring that he would slip and fall and break his neck on at least one of them the following morning.

 

Or else he could stay in bed just a little bit longer. Staying in bed awake was extremely boring, so perhaps he would be daring and risk death after all by taking another expired sleeping pill. He got the bottle, saw there were only two pills left, and swallowed them both with a glass of spring water from the dispenser in the master bathroom. Then he put on his royal blue silk pajamas. His bureau contained a veritable rainbow of silk pajamas. He considered skipping merrily through his flat until the pills kicked in, at which point he would slip and fall and break his neck. However, he had never skipped in his life, merrily or otherwise. _I’m losing my mind. Although, at least in its current condition, it’s not much of a loss. In fact, uh, in face, no, wait, in._ Snore. Probably because last night’s pills were still in his system, even though they had lost some of their potency over the years, the new pills kicked in quickly and, once again, he fell asleep.

 

He slept through his next delivery of tea. He slept through his housekeeping service, who considerately left almost immediately when one of them found Moriarty drooling in bed at a little past noon. Their concern over waking him had been polite but completely unnecessary. They could have hoovered the entire flat without his stirring. They could have sung all of Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of their lungs while jumping on pogo sticks and he wouldn’t have twitched.

 

Finally Moriarty woke up, and couldn’t stand being in bed for one more second. Judging from the light coming in through the windows, it was late afternoon. He stripped off his pajamas and took a long, invigorating shower. He dressed in one of his favourite suits. He deliberated in front of the mirror which of five ties looked best. He tried not to look above his neck, as his face looked bloated, pasty, and generally unattractive. _No matter. I am the impeccably dressed, bloaty-faced Sir Dangerous, born to rid the world of ordinary people and able to leap tall buildings at a single bound._ He plopped down on the toilet seat to take a break from the strenuous activity of choosing a tie. He hadn’t even attempted to actually knot it yet.

 

Several minutes later he strode into the living room, feeling on top of his game, and tripped over a box which his housekeeping service had considerately brought into the flat from the hallway outside his door. _Tea. Tea is for sissies._ He opened his liquor cabinet and reached for the bottle of Glenlivet Aged 50 Year Single Malt scotch he had received as payment for job. It had been a particularly lucrative job. The scotch cost in the neighbourhood of £30,000 pounds sterling. Top shelf scotch, literally on the top shelf of his liquor cabinet. The problem was, Moriarty was not a tall man, and couldn’t quite reach the bottle. _Maybe I pushed it back while previously attempting to remove another top shelf bottle of liquor?_ He didn’t drink very often, and couldn’t remember. _Did I used to be taller?_ Sir Dangerous was forced to get a stepladder to reach the Glenlivet. He was very glad he hadn’t had an audience of ordinary people watching. _Ordinary people aren’t tall anyhow. The only tall person I know is Sher-, is He Who Must Not Be Named._

 

Moriarty placed the bottle on the dining room table, and set one of his finest Waterford Crystal whisky glasses beside it. He resumed his Bach playlist and activated all the speakers in the house. He set the volume rather loud. Finally, he kicked off his shoes (he wasn’t sure why he’d put them on in the first place, as he hadn’t intended to go out) and seated himself so that he could appreciate the expansive view of the sunset. He sat for a moment, enjoying the view, and poured himself two fingers of scotch.

 

The first sip startled Moriarty. It was without doubt the most delicious beverage he had ever drank. And the strongest. He felt literally filled with fire. He smiled for the first time in days. Three days, in fact. What could possibly be better? Sir Dangerous sipping exquisite scotch from a fine glass, sitting on an extraordinarily comfortable cushioned ebony chair, tipped back slightly to enjoy a nearly panoramic view of London. Surely he deserved a well-earned break from ridding the world of parasitic ordinary people.

 

The second sip went down a bit more smoothly, now that he knew what to expect. As did the rest of the glass. One of his favourite sonatas, Violin Sonata No.1 in G minor, was playing, the sky was darkening from deep blue to purple, and life was good. He poured himself a second glass. He filled it a bit more than the first. After he finished his third glass, he decided to turn off all the lights in the flat and drink by the light of the waxing gibbous moon. While drinking his fourth glass, he felt moved to dance to the music in the dark, holding out the glass between generous sips (otherwise known as gulps) as if it were a dancing partner.

 

Rather than pour a fifth glass, Moriarty decided to dance with the entire bottle of Glenlivet, which was larger, heavier, and more satisfying to hold than a whisky glass. He felt happier than he had in a very long time. At least three days. _Sir Dangerous doesn’t require the company of Sherlock Ho—_. “ **OUCH!** ” Moriarty had danced right into the corner of the ebony dining table, causing him to fall flat on his face, half full bottle of Glenlivet Aged 50 Year Single Malt scotch in hand. His fall was cushioned by the deep pile area rug, so he wasn’t physically hurt, but Sir Dangerous was dead to the world. The Glenlivet’s fall was also cushioned by the rug. The bottle didn’t break, but £15,000 worth of whiskey spilled onto the rug. Fortunately, Sir Dangerous was oblivious.


	5. The side of the angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty takes Sherlock to a football game.
> 
> Unexpected results occur.

The day after their over-indulgences, both Sherlock and Moriarty were in no shape for company.

 

The day after that Sherlock’s phone vibrated.

 

 **Text:**  
_U up?  
_ _JM_

**Text:**  
_Now I am  
_ _SH_

**Text:**  
_Want 2 go 2 a football game?  
_ _JM_

 

 **Text:**  
_Football?  
_ _no  
__SH_

 

 **Text:**  
_Not 4 football, idiot  
_ _2 play my own game  
_ _JM_

 

 **Text:**  
_U want to play football?  
_ _SH_

 

 **Text:**  
_U sure ur awake?  
_ _2 play my own game at a football game  
_ _U watch. I play  
_ _JM_

 

 **Text:**  
_Ur 2 obscure  
_ _I’m intrigued_

 

 **Text:**  
_I’ll pick U up @ 1  
_ _JM_

 

 **Text:**  
_Ciao  
_ _JM_

Moriarty rang Sherlock’s doorbell at exactly 1:00 pm. Sherlock was ready and waiting behind the door. Unfortunately, as soon as it was unlocked, Moriarty kicked the door wide open, into Sherlock’s nose.

 

“Ow!”

 

“Oops. So sorry, darling. We simply have to stop meeting like this.”

 

Sherlock glared at Moriarty, who was already on the sidewalk hailing a taxi .

 

Moriarty opened the back door and ushered Sherlock in first.

 

“Wembley.”

 

“Lucky you, mate. Been sold out for weeks. I got my tickets couple of months ago.”

 

This hadn’t occurred to Moriarty.

 

“Good seats, then?”

 

“The best, mate. First row center.”

 

“Really? I thought those were reserved for MP’s. Made of solid gold.”

 

The cabbie laughed. “Might as well be.”

 

“I’ll never see one of those, mate. That’s for sure.” The cab stopped at a red light. “Don’t suppose you’d let me take a look? Closest I’m ever gonna get to them.”

 

The cabbie laughed. He reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket and handed the tickets over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to give ‘em back, now.”

 

Moriarty nudged Sherlock. “Take a look at these. He wasn’t kidding. I’m gobsmacked.” Sherlock didn’t look.

 

He addressed the driver. “You must be properly chuffed, man.”

 

“Ok. You seen ‘em. Now hand ‘em back over.”

 

The light changed. Moriarty unlocked his door and pushed it slightly open. He began to reach his hand over to the front seat.

 

“Now,” Sherlock whispered.

 

The cabbie took a sharp left. Moriarty began screaming.

 

“Bloody hell! Slow down, you idiot. Watch out for that lorry!”

 

Moriarty pushed the taxi door open and jumped out in the lorry’s path.

 

“You could’ve bloody killed him! I got your number, mate.” Sherlock recited the cabbie’s name and registration, which he’d read by habit as soon as he entered the taxi. “My brother’s a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. No way you’re gettin’ out of this one,” he shouted as he slid over and ran out the door. He sprinted to check on Moriarty. “Don’t even think of driving. Pull over. Pull the fuck over right NOW. I’m calling my brother.” He took out his phone and pressed the buttons for his own number.

 

The cabbie burned rubber as he sped past the lorry and risked running over a pedestrian. His tickets were one thing. His taxi license was another. The taxi was out of sight in seconds.

 

Moriarty was lying on the sidewalk, his face covered with blood. The lorry driver was bent over him, visibly shaking.

 

“Oh my God. What the hell just happened? You came out of nowhere. I couldn’t stop in time. Oh sweet Jesus. Are you ok?”

 

Moriarty got up slowly, almost falling over.

 

“I’m fine. Luck of the angels. It wasn’t your fault. Let’s just keep this between us.” he told the lorry driver. “If I report you to the police, this is the last lorry you’ll ever drive.”

 

Sherlock ran over to Moriarty. “Oh thank God! You’re alive. I thought, I thought,” He put a protective arm around Moriarty.

 

A siren sounded in the distance.

 

“Hurry up. The police are coming. Get out of here now if you want to keep your job.”

 

“God bless, mate.”

 

The siren was getting louder.

 

The driver jumped up into the lorry and disappeared in two seconds flat. The siren blared as it approached and stopped. Two police jumped out of a blue and yellow chequered car.

 

“You all right?” asked an officer who looked no older than 19 and was trying to hide that he was shaking. The older officer took out his radio and began to call for an ambulance. Moriarty stopped him.

 

“I’m fine, Officer, really,” he said, wiping blood from his face and pebbles from his knees. “It was my fault. Just walked right into the street without looking. I told the lorry driver to take off. Wasn’t his fault either. I’m a blockhead.”

 

“What lorry?” asked Bob.

 

The older police officer ignored him.

 

“Don’t you ever do that again. I should bring you in for being an idiot. Doesn’t matter whose fault it is. We needed to talk to those drivers.” Both officers looked around and shook their heads. “Bob, go ahead and call for that ambulance. This bloke needs his head examined. Inside and out.”

 

“No need, honest.” Moriarty blushed. “Fact is, we were headed to Wembley and I really didn’t want to be late.”

 

“You sure you’re ok?” said Sherlock. “You matter much more than a bloody football game.”

 

Moriarty smiled. “Absolutely tip-top. Officers, do we need to go to the station with you? Of course we’ll do whatever the law requires, but the game’s gonna start soon.”

 

“You’re in luck. The vehicles are long gone. Enjoy the game. And for God’s sake be careful.”

 

They all nodded and went their separate ways. When the police were gone, Sherlock and Moriarty looked at each other and exploded with laughter.

 

“Well done.” Moriarty punched Sherlock on the shoulder.

 

“Are you really ok, Jim?”

 

Jim wiped his face. Almost all the blood came off except for a little bit under his nose.

 

“I excel at applying blood. Almost as much as I do with mascara.”

 

Sherlock gave Moriarty a strange look. They walked to the main street and hailed a taxi to Wembley. They arrived twenty minutes early; just enough time to find their seats. They were, indeed, in the first row, opposite the main door. Moriarty turned around and looked up. He spotted a secondary door halfway up the row. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

 

“So. Tell me about your own game.”

 

Moriarty snorted some blood up his nose, then looked down to see his shirt was covered with blood. Like scalps, noses bleed heavily. He sneaked a look, saw that everyone was engaged in conversation or looking at the stadium, and quickly took off his shirt, turned it inside-out, and put it back on. The drying blood scratched his chest.

 

“I thought it would be fun to see how quickly I could empty all 90,00 seats.”

 

“Simple. Cry ‘bomb!’ ”

 

“That would probably work, but it’s cheating. Stadium security and the police would empty the crowd. I meant on our own. On my own.”

 

“Well, you certainly can’t yell ‘Help or ‘Fire’. A few people would look around, decide you were insane, and sit back down again. The days of chivalry are long past.”

 

Sherlock was dressed in an unusual style for him, neither a suit nor a bathrobe. He’d managed to find a pair of jeans and a blue button-down shirt that complemented his eyes. Not that he’d noticed. Of course Moriarty had noticed, and paid perhaps a bit more attention than necessary. He took a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped the seat before sitting down. The holes in his jeans from the fall and the light stains showing through the T-shirt actually made him look more fashionable.

 

“How _did_ you manage that?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Turning my shirt inside-out?”

 

“Running in front of a lorry, idiot.”

 

Moriarty smiled. “Figure it out yourself, genius.”

 

“Lorry drivers sit higher than auto drivers. Lorry’s undersides are higher than autos’. You saw the lorry coming before jumping out of the taxi. The lorry stopped, you rolled under it, being sure to slightly injure yourself, and came out the other side. Brilliant, but stupid. What if the driver hadn’t stopped?”

 

“But he did. By the way, you acted superbly. I couldn’t have asked for better backup.”

 

Sherlock looked at Moriarty for a long time.

 

“But how were you certain he would stop? What if he hadn’t seen you?”

 

“He saw me.”

 

Sherlock continued to look at Moriarty, then shifted in his seat and studied the stadium. “Looks like it’s almost full. This must be an important game.”

 

“Haven’t a clue. It doesn’t matter. The goal is to empty the stadium.”

 

“Right. So how do you plan to do that?”

 

“What more can I say? Make everyone leave the stadium. If I win, I win. If I lose, I lose. Loser buys dinner.”

 

“I didn’t realise the game included dinner. Chinese?”

 

“Of course. And there’s more, afterward.”

 

“More what?”

 

“You’ll see.”

 

Very loud distorted music began playing, after which the two teams entered the stadium. Complicated things began to happen.

 

“I haven’t yet quite figured out how this is going to go down. Depends on circumstance.”

 

“Don’t take too long,” Sherlock responded, stifling a yawn.

 

Sherlock drifted off into thinking or sleep. Moriarty didn’t notice. He was busy thinking himself. He did not act rashly. He took his time, considered, and waited.

 

The teams disappeared inside the stadium to do whatever teams do during half-time. More distorted music blared through giant speakers. The music changed, and the mascot appeared, a child, accompanied by an adult on either side. The child wore a tiny home team outfit. The adults were dressed as a female and a male lion. The female lion was wearing a skirt. Their heads were the size of hula hoops.

 

“Yes!” Moriarty produced a gun from his jeans pocket and shot the adults on either side of the child. Both mascots fell to the ground and lay still. The child began to scream.

 

“I think you killed them,” Sherlock said in a shocked tone of voice.

 

“I bloody well hope so. The child is fine. The adults were a mercy killing. They were dressed as bipedal lions, for God’s sake. I think it’s time we made our exit.”

 

Moriarty slipped under the seats and began half pulling himself, half rolling upward, looking for the exit. Sherlock followed. Soon they found an unmarked door clearly intended for staff, and slipped out. They watched the stadium empty as security announced that everyone exit in a slow, orderly fashion. This did not happen. People ran into and over each other, trying desperately to avoid being shot by a gun that was no longer there. The police arrived en mass a few minutes later and escorted everyone out of the stadium.

 

“It worked!” cried Moriarty, clearly delighted. “We’d best be going.” They climbed down the iron fire escape outside the door. “Oh look! We appear to be ordinary pedestrians. There’s an excellent Chinese restaurant about a half mile from here.”

 

“Jim, you just killed two people. You could have killed that child.”

 

“Notice how the crowd is rapidly leaving? I think I pulled it off quite nicely. And you know full well I’d never shoot a child.”

 

“What if you missed?”

 

Moriarty glared at Sherlock. “I never miss.” He fruitlessly attempted to remove the dirt from under the stadium seats from his pants and shirt. “Do you want to go for Chinese or not? I imagine you should be hungry by now.”

 

Sherlock paused, absorbed in thought. He mumbled something.

 

“What did you say?”

 

Moriarty stopped short, intentionally causing Sherlock to bump into him.

 

“I asked, my dear consulting detective, if you still wanted to go for Chinese,”

 

“Fine.”

 

The food was indeed superb. To Sherlock, it might well have been made of rubber. The two men ate in silence. Sherlock picked at his food, unable to eat with his hands folded under his chin. Moriarty wolfed his down. He paid for the dinner, even though he had won the wager. He hailed a taxi and gave his penthouse flat address. Sherlock remained silent.

 

The ride was short. Moriarty handed a wad of bills to the driver, stepped out of the taxi and up onto the sidewalk. He reached back and extended a hand to Sherlock. Sherlock ignored the hand and exited on his own.

 

“I assume you live here.”

 

“Brilliant as always.”

 

“I assume you expect me to follow you.”

 

“Why else would I take you here?”

 

They entered the luxurious lobby. Sherlock noticed neither the fountain nor the chandelier.

 

“Good evening, Mr Thompson,” said a desk clerk.

 

Moriarty nodded. As soon as the elevator doors shut behind them, Sherlock shook his head and looked at his host.

 

“Thompson. How ordinary.”

 

“You can hardly expect me to use my real name at one of my personal domiciles. When you have to remember so many aliases, you get lazy. So I picked an easy one.” Moriarty pushed the elevator button again, even though it was already ascending.

 

“So this is where you live.”

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“And if I ask how you can afford that?”

 

“You won’t get an answer from me, darling.”

 

The elevator door opened on the top floor.

 

“Which way is yours?”

 

“Every way. I own the entire penthouse.”

 

Moriarty looked at Sherlock, expecting a smile, and was met with an inscrutable expression. He took a large key ring from his pocket, opened a series of locks, then gently laid his hand on Sherlock’s back and invited him in.

 

“Oh wait! Close your eyes. This was meant to be a surprise. I need to shower and change. If you want, you can do the same, and wear one of my robes.”

 

“What I’d like to do is keep my eyes open. Closing them seriously impairs my ability to assess the situation.”

 

“The situation doesn’t warrant that sort of assessment. Come,” Moriarty said, putting his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and guiding him to the library. Did he feel a faint shudder in Sherlock’s shoulder? He wasn’t about to ask.

 

“You can open your eyes now. This is this library. I assume you’ll find something to occupy yourself until I return.”

 

Sherlock was already standing by the most comfortable armchair, complete with a green shade on a side table to soften the light. He was studying the books.

 

“Are these shelved in any particular order?”

 

“Mine. Help yourself.”

 

Moriarty left Sherlock pondering the library.

 

Moriarty was not happy. This was not how he’d envisioned the day would play out. He told himself not to be an ordinary person, not to worry. His game had worked perfectly. The Chinese was delicious, even if Sherlock had ignored it. _That man never eats._

 

He’d planned on enjoying a long hot shower, but the minute he turned on the water he became nervous, wondering what was going on with Sherlock. He washed as quickly as possible and chose one of his favourite suits. He’d planned to wear a tie, but, under the circumstances, he decided against it. He was in such a hurry he forgot to put on socks, which he noticed as he kicked his door open. He grabbed a pair at random and almost ran to the library. Something was obviously wrong. Moriarty excelled at sensing when something was even slightly off. Often, his life had depended on it. This situation was extremely off. Even ordinary people would have noticed.

 

“Find anything you like?” he asked Sherlock.

 

“For short-term reading, fine. Do I need to close my eyes again?” His tone of voice sounded as if he were asking if he needed to dump another pail of worms on his head.

 

Something was most definitely _very_ wrong.

 

“Just for one more moment. Follow me.” Moriarty extended his hand. Sherlock sighed. This was not how Moriarty had imagined the evening.

 

Moriarty led Sherlock to the dining room. He turned off the lights, lit several candles on the table, and led Sherlock to a seat with an excellent view.

 

“Simon says open your eyes.”

 

Sherlock examined the table first. In addition to candles, it contained two crystal champagne glasses, and a bottle of first-rate champagne. Better than first rate.

 

“You know I detest alcohol.”

 

“Oh. I thought I’d seen you consume champagne on occasion.”

 

“Not this occasion. I require a glass of water.”

 

Moriarty took Sherlock’s glass into the kitchen and filled it with freshly made seltzer.

 

“Will this suffice?”

 

Sherlock answered by gulping half the seltzer and burping.

 

“I would have preferred water, as I requested, but this will do.”

 

Moriarty turned his back on Sherlock, opened the bottle of 1996 Dom Perignon Rose Gold champagne at a perfect 45 degree angle, and filled his glass. He drank it down in several large gulps, and poured himself another glass, which he also finished. He sat opposite Sherlock and poured himself a small amount of champagne.

 

“What’s going on? You’ve been furious at me all night.”

 

“I don’t tend to react well to murder.”

 

“Nonsense. You’re not exactly innocent yourself.”

 

“I kill only in self-defence or to prevent future killing of others. I do not murder. I’m perfectly aware that you’re a murderer. I am in the process of coming to terms with the fact that I might well be an ordinary person after all. Killing at a distance doesn’t bother me, as long as I catch the criminal. Murder up close, committed by a man I had considered both an archenemy and a friend, is quite another matter.”

 

“How antithetical of you.”

 

Moriarty’s kill phone rang at the most inconvenient time possible.

 

“Please excuse me,” he called to Sherlock, running to his bedroom and slamming the door. He emerged smiling several minutes later.

 

“May I enquire as to who that phone call was from?”

 

“No.” Moriarty looked at Sherlock’s glass, which was empty. “Would you like some more water? Plain water.” Moriarty spat, as if he were offering pig offal.

 

“Yes, please.”

 

Moriarty sighed, picked up Sherlock’s glass, and returned with a pitcher of cooled spring water and a fresh glass. He filled the glass and took his seat.

 

“Do you mind telling me what is going on here?” he asked. “This is hardly what I expected.”

 

“Nor I.” Sherlock sipped his water. “I’ve explained myself several times. I do not enjoy murder as entertainment.”

 

Moriarty’s face began to turn red. “Right. The side of the angels. Guess what, sweetums? I’ve changed my mind. I think we’re both on the other side. Some people think Lucifer fell because he was such a _non-ordinary_ angel. He was vain. He wanted to be God. Tell me, honey, who does that sound like? You? Me? Both of us? Just a little bit? A teensy little bit?”

 

“So you believe in God now.”

 

“Sherlock, it was an _example._ I believe in myself. Period. But tell me. Tell me you honestly don’t think you’re just a little bit vain. I know that I am. Tell me that no part of you has ever wanted to play God. I think we’ve both been guilty of that, too. Did it really never occur to you that my plan for today might contain murder? Last I checked, you were aware of my occupation.”

 

“No, I did not expect that. Last I checked, I was apparently deluded.”

 

Moriarty stood, put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, and led him to the window.

 

“You are the least deluded person I know, except perhaps myself. I thought we’d established that.” He reached up, held Sherlock’s head, and lowered it for a deep kiss, which Sherlock returned.

 

“For old times, Jim. Quite short old times. I think it’s best if I leave now.”

 

“You’re not serious?”

 

“When am I ever not serious?”

 

Sherlock walked toward the door to the flat. Moriarty stood, feet fastened in place.

 

“You don’t mean this? Surely you don’t mean—“

 

“I mean everything I say, as you well know. Else I wouldn’t bother saying it.” Sherlock reached the door, opened it, and turned around. “Goodbye, Jim. It’s unfortunate that I misjudged us so.” He left, closing the door quietly behind him.

 

Moriarty was unaware he was still wearing his surprised face _. What the bloody hell was I thinking of? Sherlock’s a **detective.** I’m a **criminal**. And an idiot, apparently. If I weren’t me, I’d toss myself out the window._

 

Moriarty moved so close to the window he could touch it. Not that he paid a particle of attention to the view.

_So it’s over. If it ever really started. Psychopaths **cannot** and **do not** fall in love. Although obviously this particular **non-ordinary** psychopath does both. For all the good it does me. I should kill Sherlock and get over it._

 

Moriarty desperately wanted to talk to a friend. Any friend. He realised he didn’t have one. He even momentarily considered calling Mycroft, then shook his head. _Am I going insane? Am I already insane?_ He cleared the dining room table, taking a large swig from the pitcher of water. In the kitchen he used his champagne bottle stopper and put the bottle in the refrigerator. _The candles. I forgot to put out the candles._

 

He returned to the dining room table, equipped with a long metal device designed for snuffing candles. He didn’t use it right away. He pretended to stare out the window. Actually he was looking at himself. For once, with disgust _._ He killed the candles and forced himself to walk to his bedroom. He didn’t particularly want to walk. He didn’t particularly want to be in his bedroom. He didn’t particularly want anything, except Sherlock.

 

He hung his suit neatly on its hanger. He got a fresh pair of pajamas. Red. _The couloir of blood. How convenient. Actually, it’s only the colour of blood when it’s inside the body. It turns red the second it’s exposed to oxygen. It’s fascinating how long history has referred to blood as being red. In fact, the only time I’ve heard it referred to as blue is in “blue blood.” Right. Blue bloods wouldn’t recognize a fountain of blood if it flowed out of their own mouths._

 

Moriarty put on his red pajamas and hid under his comforter. It wasn’t very comforting _._

 

 _Maybe I’ll disappear to Tibet for a while. Or Russia. Or Jamaica. At least it’s warm in Jamaica, and the music isn’t half bad._ He sighed. _Maybe I’ll get it through my thick head that I’m nothing more than an **ordinary** psychopath. I enjoy murder. I enjoy torture. Whether I’m on the side of the angels, the demons, or the donkey’s ass. This was nothing but a particularly humiliating schoolboy crush. And what does one do with crushes? Crush them, of course. Give it a week. A month. A fucking year. Life will return to normal. I will return to normal. I’m Sir Fucking Dangerous._

 

He promised himself he’d wake up the next morning fully himself. No more doubts. Sir Dangerous arranges murder for money. Sir Dangerous sponsors others to murder. Sir Dangerous lives for murder. Sir Dangerous does not fall in love. Sir Dangerous always wins.

 

Sir Dangerous cried himself to sleep.


	6. Goose God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty adopts a goose.

 

Moriarty woke unusually anxious from a night of serial nightmares about the “S” word. For the first time he could recall, he felt stupid. He felt so stupid that he spent five minutes staring at his suits, unable to choose one. He finally put on his Jim from IT clothes. It was comforting to feel like someone else. Even a tired, disoriented someone else.

 

 _Maybe my brain is suffering from caffeine deficiency._ He put up a pot of coffee in his expensive coffee-maker, which did everything except drink the coffee. Not quite true, he discovered when an acrid burning smell began to fill the kitchen. He remembered too late that the machine required a small manual chore: adding water. The plastic was beginning to melt. He pulled the plug from the outlet and looked for an old-fashioned tea kettle. He found one in the cupboard behind the pots, rinsed off the dust and filled it, then waited like an _ordinary_ person for the water to boil. _Now what?_ Moriarty was not accustomed to living without his collection of overpriced machines. _What do I do now?_ He stood there completely at a loss until he remembered how the “S” word made coffee when Mrs. Hudson was out. _But I don’t have any laboratory beakers!_ He decided to make a cup of tea instead. Very strong, caffeinated tea.

 

_Bloody hell. Why did the first person I thought of while trying to make coffee have to be **Sherlock**? The “S” word left me last night for the incomprehensibly inane reason of being upset to see me kill a couple of lion mascots. What else did he expect a master criminal to do? Get out of his seat, walk into the stadium, and pet the mascots to death?_

 

His hand trembled and he spilled a bit of tea on his pants as he made his way to the living room. _Nice one, Jim. You can’t even drink a cup of tea without ruining a suit. I must have ruined at least three of them in the past week._ Then he remembered he was wearing his Jim from IT clothes, and decided a tea stain on a pair of slightly tattered jeans was no big disaster. He spent a long time sipping his tea and staring at the view, not seeing. He was looking at the images in his head, and did not appreciate them at all. _Idiot detective. I should buy him a stupid detective cap and super glue it to the top of his head._ However, of course, his problem did not stem from Sherlock’s hats. _I like him best without any hats or coats or- Stop. Stop thinking about the bastard._

 

Moriarty’s flat held too many unpleasant memories. He decided to take a walk. He passed the manager in the front hallway and exchanged nods. Once outside, he was struck by a light breeze and warm sunlight. He stopped for a moment to appreciate it. _Weather. I’d forgotten how refreshing it can be. When it’s not raining. Or snowing. Or hailing. Or otherwise precipitating._

 

The first thing Moriarty did was buy a huge cup of coffee and a plain croissant. He couldn’t abide the fake fillings. He took a giant gulp of coffee, burned his mouth and shouted “Hot!” He hoped no one had heard him. _It’s not necessary to be a consulting detective to presume that fresh coffee will be hot._ He shoved the bag with the croissant into his pocket and began to walk.

 

Moriarty walked quickly, even when he had no particular destination. Usually he enjoyed walking. It gave him time to think. Although this morning he did not enjoy his thoughts. So he looked at people instead. His Jim from IT persona blended in perfectly. He could swear that sometimes, when he wore his customary suit and hairstyle, _ordinary_ people shied away from him, as if they knew he was thinking of something deliciously dangerous, perhaps involving their demise or that of their loved ones. Today, no one gave him a second glance. He was unaccustomed to walking without thinking. The “S” word was constantly going on about meditating. Moriarty could never manage to meditate for more than thirty seconds without either getting up and doing something or falling asleep. _That’s it. I don’t have to **do** anything while I’m walking. Except, of course, walk._ He was glad he’d thought this rather than said it aloud. Apparently most of his brain had forgotten how to think. _You know that’s not true, moron. Your brain is extremely busy **not** thinking about the “S” word._

 

As he walked, his brain shed itself more and more of thought, until it seemed entirely dedicated to moving his legs. He walked for a long time. Several miles at least. He looked at his watch. He’d walked considerably longer than several miles. He’d left over two hours ago. When he realised this, he immediately felt proud. Which was immediately followed by a painful sensation in his legs. He was tired. He needed to sit down. Fortunately he noticed a path with a small sign to a public garden. He started down the path, not thinking, until he walked straight into the back of a bench. _God I’m useless without the “S” word._ Fortunately the bench wasn’t occupied. He sat down, wishing he’d brought a newspaper, and noticed a small pond near his bench. It was full of ducks. He considered feeding them some of his croissant, but that would mean standing up and his legs were still hurting. Instead he tried meditating on ducks. This actually worked. He soon found himself in a trance-like state, which was interrupted by a loud honk. Moriarty looked up and saw a goose walk by, followed by a queue of goslings. Even the big bad Sir Dangerous was interested. When the goose and her goslings had left, Moriarty noticed what looked like a nest. He decided to check it out. Anything to get his mind off the “S” word.

 

The nest was full of broken eggs, and one slightly cracked egg. As he watched, the egg began to hatch. Moriarty was so involved he forgot that watching eggs hatch was inappropriate for the dignity of his profession. He stared as a tiny gosling slowly made its way out of the egg. He looked around, but the other geese were gone. Sir Dangerous would probably have stepped on the tiny creature. Instead, Moriarty took the croissant out of his pocket and fed a tiny bit of it to the baby goose. It ate hungrily and looked up at him for more. “You think? Not a chance. This is _my_ croissant.” The gosling’s tiny eyes looked up at him, its mouth open. “Alright. Alright. You can have one more piece. That’s it.” He ended up feeding almost the entire croissant to the hatchling. It finally got tired and fell asleep.

 

Moriarty still saw no sign of the other geese. He heard a dog start barking loudly, heading toward the gosling. At the last minute, having no idea why he would even consider doing this, Moriarty shooed the dog away and picked up the gosling. It was still asleep. “Can’t have this one,” he said to the dog. “It’s mine. It’s got my croissant in it.” He knew that if he left the gosling at the park, it would die. He knew he shouldn’t care. Still, he squished up the empty croissant bag with one hand and shaped it into a poor imitation of a nest. He put the gosling into the paper nest, loosely covered it with his handkerchief, and carefully put it in his pocket. _Brilliant. Now what are you going to do with it? Raise it to be a murderer and use it as an accomplice?_ He walked back to the street, hailed a taxi, and went home. It didn’t occur to him that not once since he first looked inside the nest had he thought of the “S” word.

 

When he got home, he turned up the heat, to keep the gosling warm. It was used to a life of sitting in an egg underneath a goose. _What the hell am I doing? Why would I care about an tiny ugly goose?_ He looked up an animal rescue line and rang them.

 

“Hi. I have a baby goose that just hatched. Could you be ever so kind and come take it away?”

 

He was directed to a bird rescue line, which put him on hold. _On hold? For a goose? This is not me. Sir Dangerous would throw the thing down the garbage disposal._ But he didn’t. He sighed, waited while a computer spoke to him about bird rescue and repeatedly asked for donations. He was about to hang up when he heard a live woman’s voice.

 

‘Hello. Bird rescue line. How can I help you?”

 

“You can send someone to pick up this baby goose I found, instead of keeping me on hold listening to a computer go on about geese. That’s how you can help me.”

 

“Have you fed it?”

 

“I’m not an idiot. I saw it hatch. Its mouth was wide open. Of course I fed it.”

 

“That’s the worst possible thing you could have done.”

 

“Nice one, honey. Are you always this odious? Just get over here and take it to goose hospital, or whatever you bird people do.”

 

“Do you have a computer, Sir?”

 

“No, I live in the bloody ice age. Of course I have a computer.”

 

“Then go to this site and read it. You **can** read, I assume?”

 

“I can read you quite clearly, honey.”

 

“Read the link.”

 

The line went dead.

 

Moriarty read the link. He found about twenty rules for the care of newly hatched goslings. Several of which he had already broken. He’d fed it, fed it bread, and removed it from the nest. He sighed, found a pet shop that specialised in birds, and rang them. He told the employee who answered the phone to deliver an impossibly long list of items for such a tiny bird. The employee told him the shop did not deliver. Moriarty offered an extremely generous tip. Twenty minutes later he was up to his eyeballs in gosling supplies.

 

Moriarty wouldn’t admit it, but this entire project started to seem rather enjoyable. He got to play God. Admittedly, his godly powers were limited to a tiny goose, but he was still a god. The “S” word had never played God. He only played on the side of the angels. Moriarty, however, was an actual God. A Goose God.

 

The Goose God spent what felt like forever figuring out what each gosling supply was for and assembling it if necessary. _This is ridiculous. It’s like assembling a bloody IKEA desk._ Of course he wouldn’t be caught dead with furniture from IKEA, but he had heard Mrs Hudson complain about putting together an IKEA table. _A table. How hard can it be to attach four legs to a piece of wood?_ If it were anywhere as difficult as arranging his goose paraphernalia, the answer was pretty hard. When he'd finished, he went to the kitchen to prepare some goose food. The gosling had woken up and was standing a few feet away, squeaking. “How did you get here?” Moriarty had learned that bread was bad for geese, so he poured some special gosling food onto a plate and set it on the floor. The gosling wolfed it down. “Don’t get it into your fuzzy little head that I’m going to keep treating you as if you were Queen Elizabeth II’s goose. Soon as you can make it on your own, you’re out of here.”

 

After the gosling environment was completed, Moriarty plopped into an armchair and tried not to think about the “S” word. He heard a tiny squeak. _Brilliant. Now I need to get a new armchair._ He shifted around in the chair, trying to discover where the squeak was coming from. Apparently nowhere. The chair hadn’t made a sound. But the squeak was persistent. He felt a tickling on his leg. He reached down to scratch it, and the gosling stepped into his hand. Moriarty sighed. “This is **my** chair, goose. Out.” The gosling ignored him. As soon as Moriarty put his hand back on the chair, the gosling climbed into his lap and went to sleep. _Great. Now it’s probably going to relieve itself all over my pants. I wonder if you can train a goose to use a kitty litter box. Should have asked for the bird shop to deliver one. I guess a pan would work._ Moriarty realised he was already thinking about taking care of the gosling. _Damn it. I do **not** need a goose._

 

He set the gosling on the floor and got a small cooking pan from the cupboard. He heard a light pattering follow him. It was the gosling. “Shoo! Get away! Go do goose things.” The gosling ignored him. He took the pan to the master bathroom, where it would be easiest to keep clean. The gosling followed him. Sure enough, Moriarty found a few droppings on the bathroom floor. “Not in my house, you don’t.” He unrolled some toilet paper, picked up the droppings with distaste, and put them in the pan. He then picked up the gosling and put it in the pan.

 

“These tiles are from Italy. If you’re going to stay here, you’re going to use a goose pan. See? This is the human toilet. This is yours.” He saw several new droppings in the pan, and a bit of liquid. _This is disgusting_. He sopped up the liquid with a hand towel and tossed the towel in the hamper. His goose supplies had included a bag filled with what looked like dried leaves and twigs. He brought the bag in from the kitchen and poured some into the pan. The gosling immediately smelled it, tried to hide under it, tried to eat it, spit it out, and produced one last dropping in the goose litter pan. Then it climbed out and looked up at its Goose God. “Brilliant. You’re not incontinent. Good for you. You’re still not living here. You’re on borrowed time, honey.”

 

The gosling squeaked and opened its mouth, looking piteously at Moriarty. “Alright. Alright! You’re still hungry. I get it. Just hang on a second, will you?” He returned to the kitchen and picked up the bag of goose food. It leaked a few pellets onto the floor, which the gosling devoured. “Will you stop following me around? You’re making me nervous,” then realised he was talking to a goose. He searched through his goose supplies and found two very small bowls with very short sides. He brought the bowls and food into the bathroom, and heard a loud squeak. "Quit it. You're like a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe." He set the food and bowls next to the litter pan, then thought the better of it and moved them to a corner. He filled one bowl with water, and the other with more goose food, which the gosling immediately finished. He refilled the bowl. The gosling looked up at him as if he were an idiot. It seemed to say “did I ask for seconds?”

 

Moriarty returned to the living room and put on his Bach playlist. He sank into his armchair. He relaxed, leaned back, and heard the gosling trying to climb up the side of the chair. “Don’t go getting used to a life of luxury, darling. Sir Dangerous is **not** the kind of person who keeps pets. Try not to grow. It’s back to the pond for you as soon as you grow up.” He picked up the gosling and put it on his lap. It shifted around and got comfortable, then fell asleep.

 

The gosling felt warm on his lap. It _was_ pretty cute. _The “S” word would never take care of a baby goose. He’d say “that’s nature. We can’t control it, therefore we’ll leave it to its natural fate.”_  The "S" word was only a high-functioning sociopath. Moriarty was a psychopath, a killer, and he loved his work. But he didn’t leave goslings to die. _Wait. Don’t psychopaths enjoy torturing and killing animals? Does that mean I’m not a psychopath? I never wet the bed or started fires, the first signs of a budding psychopath. But I’m not a boy anymore. I’m a man. I’m Sir Dangerous the Goose God. I excel at killing. Ridding the world of_ ordinary _people and idiotic mascots. Ridding the world of a goose is entirely different_. He patted the gosling and reveled in Bach. Then he wondered if loud sounds were bad for a gosling. He picked up the remote and turned down the volume. It didn’t matter. The gosling was fast asleep. He petted it softly, and rested a finger on the warm little goose.

 

 _Take that, Mr “S” word. You may have left me, but I’m not alone. Does your violin keep you warm? Does your violin fall asleep on your lap? I think not._ Patting the sleeping gosling was comforting. Moriarty was tired from the walk and setting up the goose supplies. He began to drift off into a nap, then immediately woke when his kill phone rang. For the first time ever, he let it ring until it stopped. _That’s what answerphones are for._ The gosling had climbed onto the palm of his hand and gone back to sleep. Moriarty leaned back in his chair, listening to Bach, the warm little gosling nested in his hand. _This isn’t half bad_ , he thought. _Not half bad at all._


	7. Rape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty rapes Sherlock.
> 
>  
> 
> Note to reader: I'm so very sorry I didn't add the rape archive warning when I first posted the story. The problem is, I had no idea back then that this chapter would happen.
> 
> I'm aware that even reading the title can be hugely upsetting, especially without warning. I am so so sorry if I've hurt anyone.
> 
> Please please please do not read this chapter if you think it might upset or trigger you in any way.

 

 **\-- ~ --**  

**WARNING!!!**

**THIS CHAPTER IS ABOUT RAPE**

**PLEASE DON'T READ IT IF WILL TRIGGER OR UPSET YOU**  

****\-- ~ --** **

Moriarty couldn’t tolerate life anymore. His only friend was a goose, and she was lacking in conversational skills. And sexual skills. Moriarty was not in the slightest bit inclined toward bestiality. Until now, sex had never been particularly important to him. If he absolutely had to, he could take care of the problem perfectly well on his own. Moriarty had always felt completely fulfilled with remote control killing. Thinking about it, receiving a request, working out the details, and having the job completed was enough to satisfy him. Not to mention the remuneration. His kill phone had been ringing off the hook lately, which kept him quite busy. But not quite busy enough.

 

In the past, he had occasionally paid for only the best and most expensive overnight companions. This held no interest for him now. He realised that he didn’t miss sex per se. He missed sex with Sherlock. He’d been obsessed with the man for years, and now that he had experienced sex with him, someone he considered his equal, nothing else appealed to him. He’d even dropped the “S” word. He thought about Sherlock too often, and the nickname had become just as disturbing as the given name. Also, it was annoying.

 

Moriarty still didn’t enjoy getting his hands dirty, which would have been a distraction. He could always walk into one of his favorite restaurants, The Ledbury for instance, or Quo Vadis, and rather than spend several hundred pounds for a dinner to die for, he could kill everyone in the establishment. This diversion, however, had several disadvantages. First and foremost, he would never be able to eat there again. Second, shooting rich and powerful diners in a very expensive restaurant would almost inevitably result in his arrest and incarceration. This was exactly why he liked to limit himself to murder by proxy. Yet even mass murder by proxy, which he had recently had the pleasure of orchestrating, was boring. His job was becoming boring. Well paying, yes. Exciting, usually. But games such as murdering football mascots with Sherlock as a companion, even a furious companion, were no fun alone.

 

In fact, much to his deep consternation, nothing was fun without Sherlock. Unrequited love was both boring and painful. His daily walks with Goose were enjoyable, but only _ordinary_ people settled for enjoyable. Sir Dangerous required thrilling. He often thought about elaborate plans for killing Sherlock. This would provide elation for about five minutes, and then desolation for the rest of his life, having killed the only man alive who was his equal. He began trying for glimpses of Sherlock. He took Goose on walks close to 221B Baker street, or several of the detective’s favourite haunts. Unlike Sherlock, Moriarty was not a master of disguise, but he was pretty good at it. He alternated his casual attire on a regular basis, and only occasionally wore suits. He was certain that the disguises were effective. He even found an entirely new look he’d previously seen only on actors. A suit jacket over a T-shirt, tie, and jeans. He’d stand in front of the mirror gloating at how good he looked. _Honey, this look was made for you. I’d sleep with myself if I saw you in these clothes._ But he didn’t want to sleep with himself. He wanted to sleep with Sherlock.

 

Eventually, enough was enough. He was still livid at Sherlock for having had the unmitigated gall of breaking up with him. Time to take action. One morning, rather than walking Goose surreptitiously around Sherlock’s neighbourhood hoping for a sighting, he rang the doorbell of 221B. Goose honked at the sound of the bell.

 

“It’s open, Jim.”

 

Moriarty and Goose walked upstairs to the flat.

 

“Let me guess. You recognised the particular squeak of my shoes and the sound of my gait. You recognized how long I left my finger on the doorbell. You set “Moriarty” alarms that would trigger as soon as I approached your flat.”

 

“Naturally. But what gave it away was the goose. Why on earth do you have a goose?”

 

“Long story. How did you know I had a goose? ”

 

“Really, Jim, you did absolutely nothing to conceal the fact that you were stalking me with a goose in tow. Not many people do that. But to be honest, it was the honk at the doorbell that gave you away.”

 

“I wasn’t stalking you. I was following you.”

 

“The difference being?”

 

“I followed you because I missed you. Seeing you took the edge off.”

 

“Really? How mundane.”

 

Moriarty was getting angrier by the minute.

 

“Aren’t you even slightly pleased to see me?”

 

“Not particularly,” Sherlock lied. He was confident that Moriarty didn’t know his tell. He was right.

 

“Well, even though you’re acting like a complete bastard, I’m pleased to see you.”

 

“Good. You’ve had your look. Now get out of my flat, and take your ridiculous goose with you.”

 

“And if I don’t? You’re going to think me to death?”

 

Sherlock sighed. “You’re welcome to sit in my living room and watch me think, if you like. I’m not easily distractible.”

 

“Why are you so angry? You never seemed to mind my profession before. It’s the other side of the coin. We’d be bored out of our minds without each other.”

 

Sherlock took a coin from his desk. He flipped it. He flipped it again. “Take a look.”

 

Moriarty flipped the coin. Queen Elizabeth II. He flipped it again. Queen Elizabeth II. He checked to make sure the coin wasn’t weighted. It wasn’t. Queen Elizabeth II appeared on both sides.

 

“Cheater.”

 

“At what? There was no wager. We were merely looking at a coin.”

 

Moriarty took a ten pence coin from his pocket. A normal ten pence coin, with the Queen on one side and a crowned lion on the other. He showed both sides to the Sherlock.

 

“Then let’s wager. The Queen, you win. The crowned lion, I win. The crowned lion was simply made for me.”

 

“What are the stakes?”

 

“You win, I leave. I win, we have sex.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I said no. Contradiction is pointless. The answer is no.”

 

“Why? At one point I recall you considered sex with me a rather enjoyable activity.”

 

“I don’t have sex with murderers.”

 

“Yes, in fact, you do. You’ve always known I was a killer. You knew that before our extremely salacious experiences.”

 

“I don’t have sex with murderers anymore.”

 

“We’ll see about that, honey. You want the honours?” Moriarty asked, holding out the coin.

 

Sherlock flipped the coin. “Your lion. You win. Get out of my sight. _Now_.”

 

“You really are a cheater. I won the wager. I reap the benefits.”

 

Moriarty walked toward Sherlock, nearly tripping over Goose, who had settled in beside his foot.

 

“Goose. Stay.”

 

For once, Goose stayed. Perhaps it was Moriarty’s tone of voice, which Goose had never heard before.

 

“I won fair and square, and unlike you, I never renege on bets.”

 

He grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders. Though Moriarty was the shorter man, he was also stronger. He grabbed a handful of curls and pulled until their faces were almost touching. Moriarty kissed Sherlock hard, forcing his tongue inside an unwelcoming mouth. Moriarty deepened the kiss. Sherlock bit his tongue.

 

“Ow! Bloody hell! My mouth is full of blood. Was that really necessary?”

 

“I wouldn’t have done so had it not been necessary.”

 

Moriarty shoved Sherlock so hard, the detective almost fell over. He forcibly pushed Sherlock into the bedroom, then dropped him on the bed.

 

“Take off your clothes.”

 

Sherlock glared at Moriarty, and pulled his dressing gown belt tighter around his waist. He started to sit up.

 

“Oh no you don’t, darling.” Moriarty shoved him back down, pulled the belt from the dressing gown, and tied it tightly around Sherlock’s wrist and then to the bedpost. Sherlock punched him in the face with his other hand. Moriarty ignored him. He took off his tie, fastened it to Sherlock’s other hand, and secured the end to the other bedpost.

 

For once, Sherlock had nothing to say. He stared at Moriarty, open mouthed, not believing what had just happened. He kicked his legs futilely while Moriarty removed his own jacket, trousers and pants. For once, he tossed them on the floor and landed on Sherlock so hard he took the man’s breath away. He quickly opened Sherlock’s robe and forced his legs up, in a bent position. Without giving Sherlock time to move, he grabbed his ass and lifted it. Then, without any preparation, he lunged into Sherlock.

 

“Stop it! That really, really hurts.”

 

“Good.”

 

Moriarty continued to lunge faster and further till Sherlock had tears in his eyes.

 

“I can’t believe you’re doing this. Stop!”

 

“Not on your life, sweetie pie. You’re lucky I’m not killing you.”

 

Sherlock tried to kick him. Moriarty grabbed both feet and held them down, continuing to lunge into Sherlock until even he began to feel pain. He didn’t care. It was invigorating. He grabbed Sherlock’s balls and squeezed and pulled at the same time. He felt Sherlock gasp in pain and stop resisting.

 

_This is much more fun than murder. Maybe I’ll add rapist to my curriculum vitae._

 

Moriarty continued violating Sherlock until he felt himself reach the point of no return. _Damn. I wanted this to last longer_. Despite what his brain wanted, Moriarty orgasmed, one of the longest and strongest orgasms he’d ever had. After he finally slipped out, he forced Sherlock’s legs down, panting, and collapsed on top of him, shaking all over.

 

“Untie me **now**!!!”

 

Moriarty yawned, rolled over, rearranged the covers, then untied Sherlock’s wrists. He flopped onto Sherlock, relying on his weight to keep the man down. This was a mistake. Sherlock sat up and used all his strength to throw Moriarty off. He landed on the edge of the bed, just missing the floor.

 

Moriarty was still panting from exertion. Truth be told, he probably hurt as much as Sherlock. Well, maybe half as much. Neither man said a word. They were lying on the same bed, as far as possible from each other. Fuming.

 

As Moriarty’s breathing slowed and his brain began to work again, he realised what he’d done. _Bloody hell. I just raped Sherlock. Probably the only man in the world I’ll ever think of as a friend. And I expected this would make me feel better? That was a stupid thought, honey. I feel a thousand times worse. If it weren’t for Goose, I’d kill myself right here and now._

 

He could think of nothing to say to Sherlock that would possibly help, and Sherlock was silent. He didn’t get up, run away, attack Moriarty, call Lestrade, or do anything _ordinary_ people would do in his situation. He just lay there, as if Moriarty really had killed him. After a while he spoke up.

 

“Well, that was interesting.”

 

“Interesting? I bloody raped you!”

 

Sherlock ignored him.

 

“Interesting as in a new experience. An extremely unpleasant new experience. I’ve been through quite a lot of them, generally instigated by you. But I’ve never been raped before. I’m going to have to give this some thought. But first, pain relief.”

 

Sherlock jumped out of bed, groaned in pain, left the room and returned a few minutes later with a bag of cocaine and his works. He took a spoon and a lighter from his bedside drawer, prepared his drug of choice, and gave himself a healthy dose. He refrained from sitting down until the drug took effect.

 

“Would you like some?”

 

“What?!”

 

“I said, my dear despicable rapist, would you like some cocaine?”

 

“Why on earth are you offering me anything but a lifetime in prison? One that I can’t break out of, if such a prison exists.”

 

“I’m curious to see how cocaine affects you.”

 

“I’d have thought you’d be curious to see how death affects me.”

 

Sherlock was already starting to get lost in his own mind.

 

Moriarty had never taken drugs in his life. He drank alcohol very infrequently, and generally quite sparingly. He had no interest in damaging even one cell of his precious brain. On the other hand, he’d already done one previously inconceivable act today. He figured he might as well do another.

 

“Alright. But I don’t know how to use it.”

 

“Like so.” Sherlock prepared a syringe for him, pulled on his dressing gown belt until it came loose, and tied it around Moriarty’s upper arm. He inserted the syringe, withdraw a bit of blood, then injected quite a large dose of cocaine into Moriarty’s arm. He was not particularly gentle with the needle. Still, Moriarty let out a huge sigh.

 

“So this is why people do drugs. I feel divine. In fact, I never want to stop feeling this way.”

 

“Which is why _ordinary_ people become addicted.”

 

“I didn’t mean it like that. I couldn’t possibly devote the attention to detail my profession requires. I meant, I meant, for now, if now were forever, I would never want this to stop.”

 

“Cocaine is extremely effective at making one forget one’s problems. Especially problems that would better be forgotten.”

 

“Do you have any more?”

 

“Problems? Yes.”

 

“Stop being Sherlock. More drugs.”

 

“Are you requesting assisted suicide?”

 

No answer.

 

“If not, I highly suggest waiting. Your first dose hasn’t fully kicked in yet.”

 

Moriarty revelled in the feeling that everything was alright. Better than alright. Intoxicatingly delicious. Far away, a part of him knew he should **not** be feeling this way right now.

 

“Sherlock, I just raped you.”

 

“I’m aware.”

 

“I think it would have been kinder if I’d killed you. Why are you offering me drugs?”

 

“I already told you. Have you forgotten already? The rape is over. It was one of the worst situations I’ve endured in my entire life. But it’s over. If I remained upset every time I’ve been nearly killed, incarcerated, or otherwise abused, I would have no brain space left for anything else.”

 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to delete this,” Moriarty said, although he rather wished that Sherlock would do just that.

 

“Of course not. I have yet to understand the reasons and consequences. Besides, there are certain experiences, however painful, that I choose not to delete.”

 

“Why?”

 

“So I can remember them, idiot. I want to remember exactly what you’re capable of.”

 

“Why would you want to remember what I did to you? I’d think you’d want to delete me entirely.”

 

“Did you not hear me? I want to remember what you’re capable of.”

 

“So you can avoid ever seeing me again.”

 

“Not necessarily. So I can avoid letting my guard down around you. Sometimes I forget that you’re a rabid dog. It’s best I keep that in mind.”

 

“Why does it matter? We’ll never see each other again anyhow.”

 

“Why do you assume that?”

 

“It’s my understanding that even _ordinary_ people don’t want to hang out with the person who raped them. And you are not an _ordinary_ person.”

 

“If I were, I probably would delete you. But that would be cutting off my nose to spite my face. I’ve never understood that expression. Faces aren’t sentient. They don’t feel spite. It makes no sense.”

 

“Can I have another dose of your drug?”

“Not yet. You’d overdose and die.”

 

“I would think that would be what you want.”

 

“It might be what an _ordinary_ person would want. I don’t desire your death. Why would I want to rid my life of the only person worth talking to?”

 

“Maybe because he just raped you?” Moriarty suggested.

 

“If I deleted every unpleasant experience I’d ever had, my brain would be rather empty. My mind palace would be boring.”

 

“Let me get this straight. You don’t hate me because it would be boring?”

 

“I never said I don’t hate you. I do. I hate you with all my heart and soul. Or rather, I would do if I possessed a heart and soul. But rapist or not, you’re the other side of my coin. My life would be very dull without you.

 

“However, if you **ever** try that again, I shall be forced to kill you.”

 

Moriarty kept losing track of the conversation. He was too high to think straight.

 

“Can I have some more of your drug now, darling?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. He prepared another dose for Moriarty, a large dose but not quite large enough to kill him, and injected him again.

 

“Happy now” Sherlock asked, dripping with sarcasm.

 

“No.”

 

“Too bad. I’m going to play violin.”

 

Sherlock fastened his robe properly, retrieved his violin, and left for the sitting room. As soon as he opened his bedroom door, Goose ran in. She tried using her newly growing feathers to fly to the bed, and failed. Somehow, although it’s quite difficult to determine the sex of a goose until it reproduces, Moriarty thought of Goose as female. She looked like a rather ridiculous female at the moment, half down and half feathers. Moriarty barely noticed. He picked her up and set her on the bed. She snuggled beside him, her warm little body providing a counterpart to the rush of the cocaine high. Moriarty turned onto his side and put an arm around her. She snuggled closer. _I don’t deserve this,_ he thought. _She has no idea who I really am._

 

Moriarty heard a confusion of loud dissonant rapid notes, followed by soft and quiet violin music. He was totally flummoxed. _Sherlock doesn’t care that I just raped him?! Or is he just he being typically inscrutable? I certainly care. Murder, no problem. But rape? Before today, I never thought I’d consider the possibility of rape. In fact, I didn’t consider it today till it was happening. Rape is so vulgar and_ ordinary _._

 

Moriarty sighed. _Nice one, doofus. I’ve lost Sherlock forever. Threw him away with the rubbish. I love him, and I just raped him. What the hell am I supposed to do now?”_

It was time to leave. Immediately, before Sherlock’s violin cocaine high wore off.

 _OK, Goose. We’re out of here._ Moriarty dressed, except for his tie, and walked into the sitting room. Sherlock was entirely absorbed in playing his violin. He seemed oblivious to everything else.

 

Moriarty opened the door to the flat, waited for Goose, and began the annoying job of finding a taxi driver who didn’t object to one of the passengers being a goose.

 

Moriarty’s cocaine high was wearing off, and he felt worse than he ever had in his life. He found a taxi driver who was willing to transport a goose, in exchange for an extremely high tip. When he got home, Moriarty encountered the manager in his lobby again. The manager nodded as usual, as if Moriarty’s life hadn’t just changed forever. He took the lift to his penthouse, collapsed into his favourite chair, and resumed his Bach playlist. He thought of Sherlock playing Bach on the violin. He thought of Sherlock not playing Bach on the violin. He felt like throwing up. _I ought to at least shower and change._ But he didn’t. He sat in his chair, Goose in his lap, listened to Bach, while he wondered how the hell he was going to live with himself.  
 


	8. Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty has a bad night.
> 
> Sherlock has a good night.
> 
>  
> 
> Once again, I have posted a chapter that contains shooting violence without having checked off the Violence box in the Archive Warnings.
> 
> Once again, Please do not read this chapter if it will trigger you.
> 
> Don't worry. Not all of the story is going to be violent. I promise I will write some nice chapters too.

****\-- ~ --**  **

**OOPS I DID IT AGAIN**

**WARNING**

**THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS A (SMALL) MASS SHOOTING**

**NO ONE DIES**

**PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS CHAPTER IF IT WILL UPSET YOU**

**I PROMISE THERE WILL BE NICE CHAPTERS, TOO**

**\-- ~ --**  

Moriarty was not the kind of person who could sit with a goose on his lap and ponder his mistakes. Sir Dangerous was a man of action. He arranged murders for a living. If he didn’t get what he wanted from his lover, he took it anyway. If he’d personally committed all the killings he so brilliantly arranged, he’d be wanted in all seven continents. So he decided to go get an ice cream cone. He hadn’t had one for months, and the last one didn’t really count because it ended up on the floor of a taxi. He showered and changed into his Jim from IT clothes, added a football cap which he’d stolen from the Wembley stadium, and left his flat. Of course Goose followed him out to the elevator. “You really want ice cream, Goose? I don’t think you’ll like it. Maybe just a cone.”

 

He nodded to the manager in the lobby. The manager nodded back.  _Doesn’t he do anything other than wait for me in the lobby all day and night? Maybe he fancies geese._ Sir Dangerous the Goose God lived about four blocks away from a 24/7 ice cream shop.  _Who needs ice cream in the middle of the night?_  He glanced at his watch.  _“Apparently me.”_

 

The ice cream shop wasn’t overly busy, but neither was it empty. Moriarty headed straight for the counter, ignoring the comments about a goose in an ice cream shop.

 

“Can I help you?”

 

“Give me a minute.”  _Do I want vanilla, butterscotch, or caramel with salt? They’re all so absolutely delicious._

 

“Large caramel with salt cone. And a small empty cone.”

 

“We sell child-sized ice-cream cones, you know.”

 

“A child-sized empty cone, then.”

 

The employee began to make his order. The only other employee was at the cash register. Suddenly a pop sounded, then a moment later, another.  _Maybe a_ _Walther P22._  The sounds weren’t as loud as on telly or in the movies, but they were loud enough. For the briefest moment, Moriarty thought _Lucky bastard. I wouldn’t mind taking down this shop either._  Then he shoved Goose over the counter and yelled “Down!” at the two employees. He turned around and yelled “Down! Everyone down. Under the tables and chairs. Now!” The shooter fired at him but the gun jammed and missed.

 

A man and a woman were already down, bleeding from the leg and the arm. They didn’t strike Moriarty as fatal wounds.

 

Moriarty ran to the killer, a young man in dark clothing and a dark hoodie pulled tight over his face, aiming his firearm at a young couple. Moriarty stared him in the eyes and yelled “ **STOP!** ” in his loudest Sir Dangerous voice. This surprised the shooter, who did stop. Moriarty immediately aimed his Glock 17 at the shooter and said “Think again, honey. On the floor. Now!”

 

By now the shooter had recovered from shock, and shot Moriarty in the leg. It was a flesh wound. Moriarty ignored it. Adrenaline had increased his unusually impressive strength. He thrust his entire body onto the shooter, turned him around, and shoved him to the floor. Still, the shooter managed to hit the shoulder of a little girl hiding under a chair. She began screaming.

 

“Nice one, idiot.” Moriarty smacked the shooter’s gun hand with his Glock , hard enough that the man cried out in pain. “You just shot a little kid. I was thinking of toying with you, darling, but not anymore. Toodles.” Moriarty aimed his pistol at the back of the shooter’s head and pulled the trigger. Blood exploded everywhere, mostly on Moriarty. He stuck the pistol in the back of his trousers and did a quick damage survey.

 

“I saw him shoot a man, a woman, and a little girl. Leg, arm and shoulder. Anyone else shot?” People began crying and screaming. “ **SHUT UP!**   **Is anyone else shot?** ” He was met with silence. “Good. Stay where you are till the police arrive. He assessed the wounded. The man who had been shot in the leg seemed to be losing the most blood. Still, Moriarty ran to the little girl first, saw her wound was superficial, and said “It’s over now, sweetie. Just hang on. You’ll be fine.” She tried to hug him, and screamed in pain. Moriarty ran to the man with the leg wound. Sure enough, he was shot in the femur, no exit wound visible, and bleeding profusely. Moriarty reached for his tie, then remembered it was broken and hanging from Sherlock’s bed.

 

“ **Listen up. I need a tie. Anyone wearing a tie, I need it. NOW.”**

 

He waited a moment, then several men rushed over with their ties. Moriarty grabbed one and tied it tight a few inches above where the bullet had struck the man’s leg. He turned to the man who’d given him the tie, and another man holding one. The were both large, bulky men. “You two. Put as much pressure as possible right here and keep doing it. Don’t let up. Not for a second. This man could lose his leg.” He grabbed another tie and fastened it above the woman’s wound, which didn’t look very serious. Still, he grabbed another man and told him to keep pressure on the arm.

 

He then ran to the counter. Sirens were audible in the distance. “Is there another exit?”

 

“In, in the back room, behind the counter.”

 

Moriarty vaulted over the counter, grabbed Goose, who was upset but unharmed. and ran to the back door. He slammed it shut behind him. He found himself in a dark, squalid alley, complete with broken liquor bottles, cigarette stubs, and other paraphernalia he assumed were related to drugs. His adrenaline level began to return to normal, and he was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to lie down in the alley and go to sleep. But he trudged through, still holding Goose to keep her from stepping on broken glass, and hailed a taxi as soon as he reached the street. One approached immediately. He got in, set Goose on his lap, and barked his address. Goose honked at the worst possible moment.

 

“What you got back there, a bicycle horn?”

 

“Yes. Drive. Fast.”

 

For once, the manager wasn’t in the lobby. Goose jumped out of Moriarty’s arms and waddled toward the lift the moment she recognised her home. Moriarty was sweating so profusely, he could barely see the lift numbers. No matter. His was the top. He pushed it, leaned against the lift wall, and stumbled out. The door to his penthouse was open.

 

_Bloody hell. So this is my day for rape, mass shootings, and burglary? This is Not what I need._

 

He sighed, took out his Glock, and kicked Goose out of the way.  _Sorry, Goose._  He hid behind the door, and peered through the open space. Fortunately, his search ended right then and there. He walked into his penthouse, closed the door behind himself and Goose, and looked, rather miserably, at Sherlock, who was comfortably stretched out in Moriarty’s armchair.

 

“Would it do any good to ask why you’re here?” Moriarty plopped into the guest armchair.

 

“Please stop pointing your gun at me.”

 

Moriarty sighed, made sure the safety was engaged, and set it on an end table.

 

“What happened to your leg and your shirt?”

 

“Flesh wound and other people’s blood. It’s lovely to see you, darling. But I’m tired and want to go to sleep. Why are you here?”

 

“I was watching telly when an alert appeared about an attempted mass shooting at an ice-cream shop, that was averted by a man with a goose. Apparently he was quite the hero. Saved a man’s leg.”

 

“Oh. Good.”  _Hero? Hardly_.  _A little girl was shot._  “You watch telly?”

 

“Mrs Hudson taught me. We should try it sometime. It’s good exercise for the lungs, shouting at the idiots.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Are you all right, Jim? You’re not as loquacious as usual.”

 

“I’m tired. Raping you, killing a mass shooter, and coming home to find my door open and my home possibly burgled is a bit much for one day, even for me. And now you. You owe me a lecture. You owe me a punch in the head so hard I pass out. You owe me, I don’t know, something else. So why are you here? To elaborate on how much you hate me? That’s what texts are for.”

 

“I cant think of any other way I could possibly express how much I hate you. Yet I was impressed by the ice cream shop event. The shop had security cameras. I saw most of what transpired. Whatever happened to you? You love to kill, not to save people from being killed.”

 

“I was worried the noise would be too loud for Goose.”

 

“Come on, Jim. Why did you do it?”

 

“I don’t honestly know. I don’t know who I am anymore. Yesterday I was glad I raped you. Yesterday I’d have joined the shooter and killed as many people as I could. Not to mention getting my ice cream cone. Yesterday I would have shot you if you left the door to my flat open. The only thing I would have done the same was help a little girl who was shot. She was a sweet little girl. Pretty blonde curls. Screaming her head off. Even yesterday I’d have tried to reassure her she was ok. It’s just not ok to kill geese or children.”

 

“Enlighten me. What changed?”

 

“In chronological order? I realised that raping a man I love is not the best way to mend fences. I realised that while killing is often appropriate, necessary and enjoyable, shooting up a bloody ice cream shop is not. I wanted an ice cream cone, but instead found myself in the middle of a shooting. I had absolutely zero desire to kill anyone. I, Moriarty, wanted to  _stop_  people from dying. I’m absolutely humiliated that was broadcast. And when I came home, found my door open, and prepared for a burglary or at least a particularly horrid mess, I had no desire to shoot you. I’m not Jim Moriarty anymore. I don’t know who I am, but I despise him.”

 

“I rather like you better this way.”

 

“You would. Besides, you hate me.”

 

“Upon careful consideration, I have reverted to the decision that I both hate and love you.”

 

“Honey, you’re just impressed by my fifteen minutes of fame. My unwanted fifteen minutes of fame.”

 

Sherlock got up from his, or rather Moriarty’s, armchair, walked over to his archenemy, and kissed him. Sweetly. Not even any tongue biting.

 

“Why?” Moriarty pulled away. “Why have you changed your mind?”

 

“Because you’re brilliant. Because you’re my crowned lion. Because I want you more than I hate you.”

 

“Well, sweetie, you’re not getting any from me tonight. I’m exhausted.”

 

“I meant I want you in my life, not that I want you sexually. At least not at the moment. How about we watch some telly? I’ll put up a pot of tea.”

 

If Moriarty hadn’t been so used up, he’d have been amazed at Sherlock offering to do anything. But nothing seemed to matter. He stared out the window and wondered what it would feel like to be the moon.

 

He was nearly asleep when Sherlock returned with a tray holding a teapot, two teacups, and a plate of biscuits. He set it on the coffee table.

 

“You can cook. How amazing. I mean, um, what is it  _ordinary_  people say? Thank you.”

 

Sherlock dug around in the drawer by Moriarty’s chair, found a collection of remotes, and turned on the huge flat screen television that Moriarty never watched. It happened to be turned to  _Jeopardy_.

 

“Oh, this is one of my favorites. You wouldn’t believe the stupidity of the contestants.”

 

Alex Trebek posed increasingly difficult answers, difficult for  _ordinary_  people, while Sherlock shouted the questions and complained that the average kindergarten student could do the same. Then he criticized the answers for being too vague, and the questions for not being sufficiently clear.

 

“What? Both the answers and the questions are wrong?”

 

“Of course. What did you expect? It’s telly.”

 

“Well shut if off, please. It’s giving me a headache.”

 

Sherlock shut it off and stood behind Moriarty’s chair. He began rubbing his temples, ignoring the blood, feeling them melt under his hands. He moved his hands to Moriarty’s shoulders, which felt like a collection of rocks, and used all his strength to try to smooth them out. He was about to ask if Moriarty had any other particularly sore spots, when he heard snoring. For some reason he didn’t understand, Sherlock found this rather sweet.

 

He left Moriarty sleeping in the chair, Goose on his lap, and lay down in Moriarty’s bed. He sighed.  _This is probably the only reason I can think of for having money._  The Tempurpedic mattress, the goose down pillows and comforter, began to make sense. He rolled over on his back, tented his fingers to think about extremely serious subjects, and began to fall asleep. Just before he drifted off, he could hear Moriarty snoring quite loudly. He must have changed positions. For some reason, Sherlock found the loud snores even more endearing.  _But he raped me. That’s bad in anyone’s book. Have I ever done anything that bad?_  Sherlock cringed at the memories that flooded him. He turned them off, listened to Moriarty snore, and fell asleep in his host’s bed. It had been a long day of thinking. He required rest.

 

 

 


	9. Swan Boat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft treats Moriarty and Sherlock to a day in Boston.
> 
> The day does not turn out as planned,

Moriarty had just gotten out of the shower when he heard his kill phone ring. He had no idea how long it had been ringing, so he rushed, naked and dripping wet, to pick up. He was in luck. The caller offered one of the best jobs he’d ever been given. His planning expertise was needed in getting rid of the attendees of a “secret” meeting of homegrown American terrorists. If he had had a ordinary conscience, it would have been assuaged by his extreme dislike of terrorism. He considered it a thoughtless and indiscriminate method of killing, an affront to his profession. He came up with a brilliant plan anyway. No skin off his back if it didn’t work. What an auspicious way to begin a day. Unfortunately, the call ended at 5:00 AM, which meant that Moriarty would be tired all day, but wasting his time if he tried to fall asleep again. International callers were so inconsiderate.

 

After his last coffee-making mishap, Moriarty had researched coffee makers for durability, rather than assuming high-end was necessarily best. He chose one that was fool-proof and made of heavy-duty material, in case he managed to fool it anyway. Or it managed to fool him. At any rate, it made delicious coffee, and included the absolutely necessary feature of pausing while one interrupted the flow to fill a single cup. Or one very large mug, which was necessary at five o’clock in the morning.

 

Moriarty remembered every detail of how his new coffee maker worked, and the instructions for all his possessions, as was his wont. He didn’t bother himself with unimportant details, such as dressing after a shower. He sat naked at the dining room table, Goose at his feet, enjoying his morning coffee. It was a perfect spring day. The sun was out, dazzling everything reflective in his magnificent view. The headlines in his three morning papers, which he had unintentionally taken inside while stark naked, were less depressing than usual. He was thoroughly enjoying Gioachino Rossini’s _La gazza ladra_  ( _The Thieving Magpie_ ), when Sherlock and Mycroft entered his flat.

 

“Stunning outfit,” Mycroft observed.

 

“You have no one to blame but yourself if you don’t like what you see. It’s customary to knock before entering someone else’s home, or perhaps use the new-fangled device called a “door bell,” which I forgive you for not ringing because (a) I despise the way it sounds, and (b) Mycroft is certainly too young to be familiar with the invention. Sherlock, you have no excuse, but I don’t mind in the slightest your seeing me in my current attire. Coffee, anyone?”

 

“We can have coffee on the plane. Hurry up and get dressed. We’re late already,” Mycroft said.

 

“Plane? Late? For what?”

 

“Arriving at Boston by noon.”

 

“And why are we going to Boston in the first place?”

 

“I’m afraid you don’t have the security clearance to know that. Get dressed!”

 

“Casual or formal?”

 

“Formal. Go!”

 

Moriarty and Sherlock exchanged annoyed looks.

 

“I can’t help that Mycroft is my brother.”

 

Moriarty had already disappeared into the bedroom to put on one of his favourite Westford suits. Conservative, but jaunty when worn with a colourful tie. It also concealed a holster nicely. He appeared five minutes later fully dressed except for shoes. Goose paid careful attention to his shoes. She seemed to think it was her responsibility to make sure her “mother” was properly dressed. Since she was now at shin level, that applied only to Moriarty’s shoes and socks. The three men left the flat, followed by Goose.

 

“I assume geese are welcome?”

 

“Goose is mandatory.”

 

“Oooh! You said the secret word! And you know what we do when someone says the secret word? SCREAM REAL LOUD!!!”

 

“So you do watch telly?” he asked Moriarty.

 

“On occasion. Very occasional occasion. Give me a break. Pee Wee Herman was my childhood hero.”

 

“Oh,” Sherlock answered. “I’d have thought he was your contemporary role model.” It was now Moriarty’s turn to attempt not to laugh. He wasn’t very good at it. He exploded with a huge snort. Sherlock joined in. Mycroft looked humiliated. He was still holding the lift door open.

 

“Please hurry. My arm is about to fall off.”

 

The four of them piled into the lift, which took longer than usual to accommodate Goose’s waddle. When the doors to the lobby opened, the manager nodded to Moriarty. Moriarty made the mistake of looking at Sherlock and they both started laughing.

 

“That man stalks me! I should call Les-” Moriarty interrupted himself with a sneeze, so the detective’s name came out sounding like “Lestroode.”

 

“Don’t laugh!” Mycroft shouted.

 

The boys were obedient, shaking their shoulders in silence. A black limousine was waiting outside next to a double yellow line, indicating that parking is prohibited at all times. It was a tight squeeze, even in the limo; three men and a goose. But it was a fairly short ride to the runway. A Gulfstream G650 was waiting.

 

“This isn’t your usual jet, Mycroft,” Sherlock observed.

 

“It’s not a usual trip, as you full well know. We require a larger craft, which can fly longer distances without refueling.”

 

“So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Moriarty asked Mycroft.

 

“I think my brother can handle that. My part in this little charade is over. I’ll see you soon, Sherlock.” Mycroft turned to Moriarty. “I’d ask you to take care of my little brother, but I rather doubt the two of you could take care of each other. Have fun.” He disappeared into his own limousine. “Oh,” he shouted out the window. “A limo will be waiting for you after your first activity. It will deliver you to where you will be dining.”

 

“When? Where?”

 

“You’ll find out. This entire trip was planned for your enjoyment, you and your pet’s. I think you’ll be quite pleased with the results.”

 

The limo was off before Mycroft could say goodbye. Had he been planning to, which he hadn’t been. Moriarty and Holmes sat in silence while the limo drove to the airfield.

 

The aeroplane looked quite large for two men and a goose, although a section in the back was curtained off.

 

One of the seats was already occupied. It held a giant swan plushie, with a pink ribbon tied around its neck.

 

“What on earth?” Moriarty asked.

 

“This is a celebration, which Mycroft and I calculated to meet all the needs of all the guests.”

 

“A celebration of what?” Goose was investigating the swan, nipping at the ribbon.

 

“Oh, please. Are you so unromantic as to have forgotten?”

 

“Um, the day we first had sex? That wasn’t a year ago, was it?”

 

“No, Jim. Not even close. Recall what happened the next day.”

 

“I cried?”

 

“How terribly sweet of you. But no. What else happened the next day? By the way, your goose is eating its present.”

 

Moriarty turned to chastise Goose. She was nipping away at the bow.

 

“That’s probably not good for her.” Moriarty removed the bow, and was nipped for his trouble. “Oh. Goose! It’s been six months since I adopted Goose! Is that what this is all about?”

 

“Possibly.”

 

“You moron,” Moriarty said, then gave Sherlock a quick kiss. Goose was still fascinated by the swan plushie, and was nipping on its beak.

 

“I believe that term applies to you. It is moronic to fall in love with waterfowl. However, since you have done so, I’ve arrived at a celebratory plan.”

 

“Where are we going? Uh-oh. No goose pan.” The aisle smelled of goose poo.

 

“Just a moment.” Sherlock ran past the curtained section and returned with a goose pan partially filled with goose litter. “You may do the honors.”

 

Moriarty sneered. “Does this plane have a toilet?”

 

Sherlock pointed.

 

Moriarty returned with an excess of paper towels, removed the goose residue, and showed Goose the box. She immediately sat in it and made use of her toilet.

 

“Can we perhaps move that further from our seats?”

 

Moriarty picked up the pan, Goose included, and moved it to the back of the plane. Goose looked very annoyed, and produced a derisive honk.

 

“Better?”

 

“Much.”

 

“So where are we going, to celebrate Goose’s half-year adoption?”

 

“Stop asking so many questions.”

 

“Ok. Let’s play kill.”

 

“Kill is unbearably boring. Too much like 20 questions.”

 

“But that’s the point! The questions are about killing. Come on, Sherlock. We play it all the time. And I always win.”

 

“No,” Sherlock yawned. “You always say that. I always win.”

 

“Well if it were real, I’d be the one doing the killing.”

 

“Irrelevant. It’s a game. And I do almost always win.”

 

“Then I’d shoot you first. Speaking of shooting, my holster is sticking into my back.”

 

“And you are telling me why?”

 

“Because I’d like you to carry the Glock for me. It _is_ Goose day.”

 

Moriarty looked up at Sherlock with his huge brown puppy dog eyes.

 

“Pleeeease?”

 

“Are you aware that if you had small blue eyes like mine, you’d never get a favor out of me?”

 

Moriarty fluttered his long eyelashes at Sherlock. Sherlock huffed and put the gun in his calf holster. Moriarty took off his own holster and leaned back.

 

“Happy now? You’re unarmed, you realise.”

 

“You two rushed me out of the house. I forgot my second holster. Are we headed somewhere dangerous?” Moriarty asked, with a tone of expectation.

 

“Hardly. Now that I have two guns, I promise I’ll protect you first.”

 

“I feel naked without my Glock.”

 

“You were naked when we arrived. You are fully dressed now. Do you want the pistol back?”

 

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I feel like killing someone.”

 

“Is that what you really want?”

 

“No. Well, not anyone on the plane.”

 

“Then please let me fall asleep.”

 

Sherlock leaned his seat back as far as possible. “I had to wake at an ungodly hour this morning. I think I’ll take a nap.”

 

“How long is the flight?”

 

“Approximately six hours and fifteen minutes, depending on the wind. Forever, if you don’t stop talking.”

 

“Mycroft said there’d be coffee on the plane.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock yawned. “In the back, near the curtain.”

 

Moriarty helped himself to a cup of coffee, gulped it down, and poured another, which he took back to his seat. He sipped it slowly till it was gone, then fell asleep with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

\-- ~ --

 

Moriarty did not recognize the tiny airport upon landing. It looked more like a field with a long straight path running through. He still had no idea where they were.

 

He poked Sherlock to wake him. He was already awake.

 

“We’re here, wherever here is. A clue? It’s disconcerting not to know where I am.”

 

“Pay attention. You’ll find out soon enough. Here.” He handed a baggie of goose food to Moriarty.

 

The limo drove south, and soon Moriarty recogonised the giant mirror-faced John Hancock building.

 

“Boston? We flew to Boston for Goose?”

 

“Do you know that during construction of the Hancock, the retaining walls failed and flooded the Back Bay neighborhood with mud and clay? Which is exactly what they were built to prevent. When the damage was restored and the Hancock was built, the pieces of exquisite blue reflective glass began to fall off and crash to the sidewalk. All 10,344 window panes were replaced with single paned, heat-treated panels. During the construction, the building was locally known as _The Plywood Palace_.

 

“Even after reconstruction, the top floors swayed in the wind, causing occupants to suffer from motion sickness, thus requiring the installation of a tuned mass damper.”

 

“No, I did not know that.”

 

“Additionally, The Big Dig, a plan to update the insanely moronic access to the central artery and Logan airport, was built quite poorly as well. The newly constructed tunnel to the airport immediately developed leaks in the ceiling and walls and a host of other places. This was essentially ignored until a motorist was killed by a piece of the tunnel dropping on her car, at which point the original contractors who had cut too many corners in the first place were hired to repair the tunnel.”

 

“That’s lovely. Why are you taking me to a city that wants to kill me?”

 

“We’re not going near that part of the city. And Boston offers other, more delightful, features. One can be found in the Boston Public Gardens, which we are now approaching.”

 

The limo stopped, and the threesome walked down a pathway surrounded by greenery and flowers.

 

“This is lovely, Sherlock, but London has a variety of excellent parks with flora and fauna too.”

 

“This trip is for Goose, not you.”

 

They approached a lagoon, with an empty building with no sides, and what appeared to be ten or so gigantic swan statues sitting next to each other on the shore. The lagoon and building were cordoned off with red velvet. At least twenty adults and children were standing by, watching. A boat pulled up to the building and stopped. A man stepped out of the building, and shouted “Party of Croft?”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

“Please follow me.” The employee gave Goose a nasty look, then sighed. He’d been paid quite a lot of money to allow an animal on board, though he thought allowing waterfowl was a particularly poor choice.

 

The three of them stepped through an opening in the cordon, entered the building, and were guided to the boat. Moriarty’s jaw dropped. The stern contained a gigantic swan, with a man sitting in the middle of it. In front of the swan was a series of benches, and an entrance at the port.

 

“Is this powered by a huge swan?”

 

“Hardly. The bottom of the swan contains pedals. The captain sitting inside the swan pedals the boat, much like a bicycle.”

 

Goose was standing very close to Moriarty. She seemed frightened.

 

“All aboard,” said the ticket vendor in a monotonous bored voice. He had not vended any tickets. Mycroft had paid for the entire boat ride, and ensured that his brother, his brother’s archenemy lover, which Mycroft could not comprehend, and the goose were the only passengers.

 

Sherlock boarded first, excited. He ran to examine the swan “engine.”

 

“No running on board” the ticket vendor said in a computer-generated tone of voice.

 

“I have extremely long legs and thus a long gait. I am walking rapidly, not running.”

 

Sherlock addresssed the captain.

 

“May I have the pleasure of propelling the boat? I’m quite familiar with bicycle pedals.”

 

The captain stared at Sherlock disbelievingly, and replied “No. We’ve already broken too many rules for you. If you so much as touch the pedal and anything goes wrong, we’ll be sued up the ass.”

 

Sherlock loped back to the entrance. Moriarty was holding a confused looking Goose. She, of course, noticed no resemblance whatsoever between herself and a large white structure in the shape of a swan.

 

The three of them sat in the front row, and the swan boat began slowly riding through the lagoon. This further upset Goose, who had now buried her head in Moriarty’s armpit.

 

The boat rounded a bend and everyone heard a very loud, snorting sort of noise. Two actual, living swans, were swimming in the lagoon, toward the boat. This immediately grabbed Goose’s attention. She struggled out of Moriarty’s arms and ran to the edge of the boat. The swans, interested in this creature that was neither a swan nor a duck, swam toward her. Goose fluttered her feathers and jumped off the boat into the lagoon. She swam toward the swans with alarming alacrity. Moriarty let her bathe in his guest bathtub every day, but he’d never really seen her swim before. Swimming was clearly her preferred method of transportation. Waddling didn’t compare.

 

The pair of swans looked at each other, looked at Goose, and decided they didn’t like her. They began to hiss and swim rather quickly toward Goose, who was honking her head off. Moriarty immediately jumped off the boat and swam over to Goose, who was already swimming toward him, away from the swans. He grabbed her under one arm, making sure to keep her head above water, and swam back to the boat. Sherlock extended a hand, and helped the two back onto the swan boat. Goose immediately ruffled her feathers, which would have soaked Moriarty were he not already drenched. Sherlock had wisely moved out of the way as soon as the two were back aboard the boat.

 

Swan boat rides, while popular tourist attractions, were not particularly enjoyable entertainment for geese. Goose turned in Jim’s arms to face him, buried her head in her feathers, and would have sobbed had she been able to.

 

“My jacket, Sherlock! Take off my jacket. She’s shaking.”

 

Sherlock wrapped Moriarty’s jacket over Goose, tying the arms behind Moriarty’s back. Goose was effectively trapped, or, from her point of view, safe. Sherlock tried very hard to suppress a laugh.

 

“Don’t even think about it,” Moriarty barked.

 

“And what will you do to me? Attack me with a goose? Remember the item you entrusted to my care on the plane? I still have it, along with my own.”

 

Moriarty sighed. “At least it didn’t get wet. Would you be so kind as to request that the driver return as quickly as possible?”

 

The captain, who felt no particular compassion for his passengers, was bellowing with laughter. He reversed direction rather more sharply that usual, and pedaled as if he were trying to win the world’s slowest bicycle race. He stopped when the boat was back to shore, where the ride had begun.

 

Moriarty left the boat as quickly as possible and ran several metres away. Then he stopped, bewildered. Sherlock joined him and pointed out a large willow tree, just out of sight of the lagoon. They settled under the tree, surrounded by dripping greenery and little sparks of sun that shone through the spaces between the leaves. Moriarty tried to ignore the sounds of the children waiting for the next ride.

 

“Mommy, look! That man is soaking wet” a little girl cried out.

 

“That’s because he was trying to save his goose, dummy” said a boy, who was most likely the girl’s older brother.

 

Sherlock was grinning widely. Moriarty looked as if he were about to cry, scream, or kill someone.

 

“For Goose’s one year anniversary, can you please have the common decency to lock the two of us in an outhouse and be done with it?”

 

Sherlock gave up trying not to laugh. Moriarty, soaking wet and still holding Goose, who was now sticking her head out of his jacket, started laughing too. Any fears that Goose might attempt to run away were assuaged when she caught sight of a squirrel and burrowed into Moriarty’s jacket again.

 

When they had to stop laughing to breathe, Moriarty looked at Sherlock.

 

“I’m soaking wet.”

 

Sherlock started laughing again, then stopped at Moriarty’s glare.

 

“I’m soaking wet, I have no change of clothes, you have my gun, and I seem to be permanently attached to a goose. Do you think maybe we can cut this short and return home now?”

 

“Did you know that those two swans have been bonded for decades? They’re called Romeo and Juliet.”

 

“No, I did not know that. Those names are degrading,”

 

“Not when you consider that they’re both female.”

 

“Really? They’re lesbian swans?”

 

“I wouldn’t know. In that, I don’t know if they have sexual relations. But they are two bonded females, as in swan marriage.”

 

“Can swans marry?”

 

“I don’t know. I suppose it depends where they live. Laws differ, you know.”

 

“And where exactly can waterfowl get married, gay or straight?”

 

“I don’t know, Jim. Probably nowhere. I was just trying to cheer you up.”

 

“Oh. It didn’t work. Could you and I get married in Boston?”

 

“Currently, I believe we could. Is this a formal marriage proposal?”

 

“No, doofus. I don’t want to get married soaking wet holding a goose. There are no situations I can imagine in which I’d want to be soaking wet holding a goose.” He delicately avoided the subject of marriage. At the moment, he was more inclined to kill than marry.

 

“Mycroft might be an ass, but he did go to a lot of trouble to arrange today.”

 

“I’m aware. You and your brother are on the side of the angels, both of you. Goodie for you. Can you use your bespoke detecting powers to find me some dry clothes?”

 

“Can you shut up for once and try to behave like a human being?”

 

“You mean like an _ordinary_ person?”

 

“Alright. I concede. The master criminal wins.”

 

“Do I? I’m still sitting here soaking wet, unarmed, holding a goose.”

 

“And whose fault is that?”

 

Moriarty sighed. “Fine. I concede. The master detective wins. What are we going to do now?”

 

“Mycroft reserved an entire restaurant for us, specifically so that Goose could come. It’s rumored to have the best pâté de foie d'oie in the city. 

 

“Isn’t that goose liver? I can’t feed Goose goose liver. She might get Mad Goose Disease.”

 

Sherlock swallowed a laugh.

 

“Besides, even if your brother reserved the entire city for us, I’d prefer not to sightsee when soaking wet. Can’t we call off the dinner and go home?”

 

“I suppose. We’d still have the problem of your being soaking wet. I don’t think Mycroft would appreciate wet seats in his limousine and aeroplane. Perhaps I could buy you a bathrobe.”

 

“Perhaps I can return home naked.”

 

“Very unsanitary.”

 

“OK then, buy me a bathrobe.”

 

Sherlock took out his phone and googled the nearest clothing store that might sell bathrobes. He found a Brooks Brothers store a six-minute walk away.

 

“How do you feel about walking six minutes to a Brooks Brothers?”

 

“Just peachy.”

 

Moriarty noticed a long black limousine parked at the street closest to the exit.

 

“I see the limo waiting for us. Maybe if I sit on your coat they’ll take us.”

 

“Put it on, first.”

 

“Is your coat waterproof?”

 

“I have no idea. It’s a coat. If it gets ruined I can buy another coat. No, actually you can buy me another coat.”

 

“But you love that coat. You wear it every day.”

 

“That’s because it’s my only coat. Here,” he said, taking off the coat and offering it to Jim. “Wear it.”

 

They approached the limousine and Sherlock asked the driver to take them to Brooks Brothers. The driver looked non-plussed.

 

“It’s a five minute walk.”

 

“I’m aware. Time is of the essence.”

 

The driver started to get out, to escort the two men in. He didn’t notice Goose.

 

“No, no, that’s fine. We’d prefer to seat ourselves.”

 

“Whatever you like. It’s all paid up in advance anyhow.”

 

Goose honked loudly. Apparently she did not enjoy limo rides, or she was still in a bad mood from having nearly escaped death by swan. The driver made a concerted attempt not to complain. Mycroft had given him a large goose tip.

 

Apparently this particular driver did not believe in seat belts. He took off the moment the men and goose were in the car. Moriarty dropped Goose, who honked with dismay. Sherlock almost stepped on her, then bumped into Moriarty to avoid the goose.

 

“Watch it. You just banged into me. Let me tell you something, honey. You really don’t want to bang into me right now.”

 

“Please accept my humblest apologies,” Sherlock spat back. “I was trying to avoid stepping on your precious goose.”

 

Jim bent down to retrieve Goose from under the driver’s seat.

 

“Don’t even think about holding that goose while you’re wearing my coat.”

 

“Fine.” Moriarty dropped Goose on Sherlock’s lap. He cringed.

 

“She’s not venomous, you know.”

 

“We’re here,” the limo driver announced before his passengers had time to fasten their seatbelts. Newbury street was heavily double-parked, so he parked in a handicapped space. Several passersby gave him a nasty look. The driver considered himself entirely justified in his choice of parking space. He may not be disabled, but, in his opinion, his passengers were certifiably insane.

 

“I’ll be back soon. What size bathrobe do you wear?”

 

“I don’t have a bloody clue.” Moriarty was not about to tell Sherlock he wore a women’s bathrobe. “You’re a master detective. Figure it out.”

 

Ten minutes later Sherlock returned with a shopping bag.

 

“What took you so long?”

 

“The gentleman at the store kept trying to convince me to buy a bathrobe for myself. Here,” he said, shoving the bag at Moriarty. “You owe me $185 dollars.”

 

“Mycroft owes you $185 dollars.” Moriarty stuck his hand inside the bag. “Oooh. It feels delicious. What’s it made of?”

 

“I have no idea. It’s a bathrobe.”

 

“Right. Um, uh,” Moriarty seemed to be at a loss for words, a very unusual situation for him. “Uh, Sherlock?”

 

“Right here.”

 

“I know. Uh, thank you?”

 

“I win!”

 

“Win what?”

 

“Mycroft and I placed a bet on how long it would take you to say ‘thank you.’ He guessed never. I guessed a year. I was way off, but I still win. Oh. And you’re welcome.”

 

“You two done?” asked the driver. Silence. “Where am I taking you now? Menton’s, for dinner?”

 

Moriarty giggled. “I don’t think I meet the dress code. We’ll get some fast food and eat on the plane. You don’t mind buying us some takeout at McDonalds, do you, darling? I’ll give you my credit card.”

 

Sherlock gave him a glance Moriarty had never before seen, at least not directed at him.

 

“I believe I have enough cash left over to cover whatever it is they sell at McDonalds.” He picked up his phone and started texting. After a while, he put it away.

 

“Pray tell?”

 

“Mycroft said the pilot is waiting at what passes for an airport. We can leave now.”

 

“Does the limo driver know where we’re going?”

 

“Jim. He’s the same driver that picked us up. Notice the Boston Red Socks cap, the bald head showing through the strap at the back, the blue windbreaker. Not to mention the speed at which he drives. And, of course, his voice.”

 

The driver laughed. “You talkin’ about my twin from southie.”

 

“Excuse me?” Sherlock asked.

 

The driver sighed. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He continued driving way over the speed limit, even though they were in no hurry. He sped by a McDonald’s, and both men yelled “Stop. Back up.”

 

Sherlock reluctantly entered the restaurant and ordered two large cheeseburgers with fries and coke. He desperately wished it were the other kind of coke. He had just enough cash to pay for it. In fact, not quite enough. He was fifteen cents short.

 

“My dear girl, I seem to find myself in a most embarrassing situation. I owe you fifteen cents. Please feel free to remove some of the french fries if needs must.”

 

The cashier gave him a weird look.

 

“Huh?”

 

“I said, I lack fifteen cents of the cost of these meals.”

 

The cashier laughed.

 

“You do know they compare the orders and the register every night here?” she asked.

 

Sherlock sighed. “Just a moment while I retrieve the necessary cash from the limousine”

 

“Are you crazy, mister? I’ll make it up myself.” She fished two coins out of her pocket and dumped them in the register. “See? All fixed.” Sherlock thanked her and began to leave with his food. “Wait a minute. This is a Liberty dime. One hundred percent silver. The only good thing about being a cashier is I run across one of these every now and then. Do you mind swapping it for a different dime?”

 

Sherlock sighed. “If you recall, I am lacking in dimes.”

 

“Oh, right. I’ll make it up myself.” She looked in her pockets, found another dime, and exchanged it for the Liberty dime.

 

“If you’re a numismatic, I can give you several British coins.”

 

“A what?”

 

“A numismatic collects coins. Would you like to add any British coins to your collection?”

 

“Really? Wow. You’d do that?”

 

Sherlock reached into his other trouser pocket and removed the entire contents.

 

“Here. Enjoy.”

 

“Thanks, mister.”

 

Sherlock didn’t hear her. He was in a hurry to leave the McDonalds.

 

“What took you so long?” Moriarty asked.

 

“Numismatics.

 

Moriarty did not reply.

 

The consulting detective and killer looked out their windows at the increasingly tawdry scenery. Every now and then, they caught a glimpse of the ocean. It was not worth the stench of the ocean, which permeated the limousine.

 

“Why on earth does the ocean stink to high heaven?” Moriarty asked the driver.

 

“Pollution. Ever heard of it? Don’t know if they got it in England.”

 

“Is the air polluted too?”

 

“Buddy, everything’s polluted in Boston. Don’t you read the papers?”

 

“Only _The Times_ _, The Daily Telegraph,_ and  _The Independent.”_

 

“Never heard o’ them.”

 

“That’s because they’re London papers, idiot.”

 

“Hey, watch the language. This is a clean limo.”

 

Not anymore, thought Moriarty, considering his soaking wet shoes and any present Goose may have left under the seat. Not to mention the grease leaking from the McDonald’s bag.

 

“We’re here. That’s your plane. You can get out now. Thank Jesus, Mary, and the Holy Ghost.” The driver crossed himself.

 

Moriarty and Sherlock stared at each other, then shook their heads. No thank you’s for that driver.

 

They made their way to the only aeroplane, knocked on the window, and got in.

 

“Home, please,” said Jim.

 

“So how come you’re so early?” the pilot asked.

 

“Long story, sweetie. Take us home.”

 

Before sitting down, Moriarty used the bathroom to remove his sopping wet clothes and put on the bathrobe. It felt wonderful. Though newspaper would feel wonderful at the moment, as long as it was dry. He tossed his clothes, including socks and shoes, into the Brooks Brothers bag. Goose shot him a reprimanding look.

 

“Goose. They’re soaking wet. You wear them if you want to.”

 

Goose declined and followed Moriarty back down the aisle. He took a seat on the other side of the aisle from Sherlock. At least that way, the grease would drip on the carpet. Sherlock handed him a burger, fries, and Coke.

 

“What am I supposed to do with these?” he asked, shooing Goose away. He gave her a handful of goose food.

 

“I believe it’s customary to eat them.”

 

“Ha ha. I meant, I don’t want to ruin my bathrobe, too.”

 

“The seat in front of you has a tray. Very common in aeroplanes.”

 

“Oh. Right.” Moriarty pulled down the tray, put his food on it, and began to eat.

 

“This is-t half –ad,” he told Sherlock, gobbling the hamburger.

 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

 

Moriarty devoured the rest of the food. Before he drank his Coke, he asked Sherlock a question.

 

“Do they have any alcohol on this plane?”

 

“Do I look like a flight attendant? Check in the back.”

 

Moriarty did, and returned with a handful of little bottles.

 

“Want one?”

 

“No thank you.”

 

Moriarty poured all the bottles into his Coke. He slugged the wretched drink down, pushed up the tray, and set his seat all the way back. He remembered his phone, and searched for it in the bag of wet clothes on the floor next to him. He found it, turned it on, and was amazed it still worked. _Chalk one off for Apple._ He asked Sherlock for his holster and firearm.

 

“Now? Really?”

 

“It makes me feel safer.”

 

“It makes me feel rather unsafe.” Still, Sherlock handed them over. Moriarty put on the holster, which was very uncomfortable against his naked skin, but he wasn’t about to complain. He added his Glock. The weight felt familiar and comforting. Moriarty was unaware of how ridiculous he looked, wearing a holster and gun under a bathrobe which refused to stay tied. He tried texting Sherlock, to test if his phone was fully operational.

 

 **Text:**  
_Does this work?  
_ _JM_

 

 **Text:**  
_Does what work?  
_ _SH_

**Text:**  
_Nevermind.  
_ _JM_

 

 **Text:**  
_I know. I’m an idiot.  
_ _Will U stay at mine 2nite?_

**Text:**  
_Will U say the secret word?  
_ _SH_

**Text:**  
_What word? Goose?  
_ _JM_

 

 **Text:**  
_3 wrds  
_ _If U laugh I’ll throw U out the window_

_JM_

**Text:**

_3 words  
_ _Say them  
_ _SH_

**Text:**  
_At my flat?  
_ _JM_

**Text:**  
_No.  
Try again.  
_ _SH_

**Text:**  
_It’s not hard.  
_ _Say it.  
_ _SH_

**Text:**  
_I luv U?  
_ _JM_

**Text:**  
_Did I get it right?  
_ _U gonna stay with me 2 night?_

**Text:**  
_Maybe  
_ _SH_

**Text:**  
_I hate U  
_ _JM_

**Text:**  
_Ok. I’ll stay.  
_ _SH_

**Text:**  
_Flying makes me tired.  
_ _G’night  
_ _JM_

**Text:**  
_Now that Ur dry, sit with me  
_ _SH_

**Text:**  
_Shove over.  
_ _No room.  
_ _JM_

 

Sherlock moved to the window seat. Moriarty sat beside him and laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Goose investigated the empty greasy McDonald’s bag. _McDonald’s not that bad. And I still haven’t broken my promise never to set foot inside one._

 

Moriarty got up to stretch his legs. He picked up Goose, not noticing that his robe was wide open, exposing not only himself but his holster and gun.

 

Sherlock laughed. “That would make a lovely portrait.”

 

“Don’t you dare.”

 

Sherlock’s phone clicked.

 

“Sexting is bloody illegal. Or it should be. Erase that _now.”_

 

“Oh, I thought I’d put it on my facebook page.”

 

“Honey pie, sweetums, light of my life. If you post that I shall have no choice but to kill you. Happily. Now. Give me the phone,” he said, grabbing it from Sherlock.

 

Moriarty was about to delete the photo. Then he took a good look at it.

 

“Not bad. Not bad at all. In fact, it’s rather flattering.” He pushed the little trash can icon. “Bye bye, bad photo. Enjoy the black hole where deleted photos go when they die.”

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Mmmm?”

 

“Are you still staying at my flat tonight?”

 

“Certainly. Just make sure you put on some clothes first.”

 

“I’m wearing clothes.”

 

“A shirt and trousers.”

 

“Do I have to? I have this new little black dress I’ve been dying to wear.”

 

“ _What??!!_ ”

 

“I said I’ll have to find someone to dress my hair.”

 

“Go to sleep, Jim.”

 

Sherlock began to snore. Moriarty tried playing “kill” on his own. It was boring. He considered programming his phone to play with him, then realised he wasn’t really Jim from IT and had no idea how to program phones. He thought about US terrorists being killed. He thought about where he’d put a giant swan plushie in his flat. He wondered how a consulting criminal could possibly fall in love with a consulting detective. He thought about Goose wearing a bathrobe. He thought about her waddling past the manager, tripping on the length of the robe. He thought about a queue of geese in bathrobes in the lobby of his building. He thought about a queue of robed geese walking past the manager. He thought about the manager honking at them. He thought about briefly closing his eyes. He thought about blessed nothing as he fell asleep.


	10. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty's plans go horribly wrong and four London primary schools are targeted in the late morning,
> 
> Moriarty's daughter attends one of them.

“Jim. Come here.”

 

Sherlock was sitting in the guest armchair wearing the robe he’d bought for Jim. It fit him so well Jim sometimes wondered if he’d tried it on himself. In any case, Sherlock had appropriated it as his “Jim robe.” Moriarty repeatedly tried to get him to call it something else. Every time he heard “Bring me my Jim robe,” Moriarty felt as if he himself were a dressing gown. His ego was pretty impenetrable, but being repeatedly referred to as a robe was scraping away at the surface.

 

“No. It’s not even ten yet. It’s my day to sleep in. It’s all comfy here. Why did you wake me? What are you doing up by yourself? You were supposed to make me breakfast in bed. I’m hungry. You come here.”

 

“I can’t. You have to come.”

 

“Oh, have your legs become permanently attached to my chair?”

 

“Jim. COME HERE. I refuse to show you this in bed.”

 

Moriarty huffed, put on what he now thought of as _his_ robe, and walked out of the bedroom, tying the belt.

 

“So what’s so bloody important that I have to see it in this particular room?”

 

Sherlock almost considered saying “sit down,” but he just couldn’t bring himself to say words that were the epitome of ordinary. So he handed the paper to Moriarty. Moriarty looked at the photo on the front page and involuntarily sat down on the floor. Sherlock had heard the term “his face turned white” and assumed it was an exaggeration. It was not. The only colour in Moriarty’s face were his eyes.

 

“Give me that.” He grabbed the laptop from Sherlock. It was pretty clear. The entire top of the page was devoted to one headline, several centimetres tall:

 

**Four London Primary Schools in Flames  
0ver 40 dead, 500 missing or unaccounted for**

**At 9:45 this morning, four primary schools in London were apparently set on fire. Police haven’t ruled out bombings. The schools are: Primrose Hill Primary School, West London Free School Primary, Fox Primary School and the Gower School. Police will set up a hotline for parents as soon as they have more information. For now, the best thing parents can do is stay away from the crime scenes and let the authorities do their work.**

Moriarty read the names of the schools carefuly, just in case they were different from those in the printed newspaper. They weren’t. Moriarty could barely breathe. “No! NO! Fucking IDIOTS! I told them to hit the schools **at night**. They promised they would hit the schools **at night**. At **21:45.** How could I have been any clearer? What the **hell** have they done? What the hell have **I** done?”

 

“Maybe they misunderstood military time?” Sherlock immediately felt like an idiot, but he'd had to say  _something._

 

“Even ordinary people know military time. What else could I have meant by 21:45?” Moriarty was shaking so hard it was difficult to understand what he was saying.

 

“I’m aware that you don’t kill children or animals. This must be, um, a very, uh, upsetting mistake for you.”

 

“Upsetting? Yeah, it’s bloody upsetting, **moron**. **My** _d_ ** _aughter_ goes to one of those schools**.”

 

Sherlock was stunned. “You have a daughter?”

 

No response as Moriarty ran to his bedroom to throw on a suit and tie. Sherlock did the same.

 

“Where are we going?” asked Sherlock.

 

“Primrose Hill Primary school. Why the hell didn’t I specify which schools to hit? Or at least the schools **_not_** to hit? I’m an idiot. This is all my fault. I have to call Mycroft.”

 

“Let me do that.” Sherlock punched one of his favourites buttons. “Mycroft. We have to get to Primrose Hill Primary School. Now.”

 

“You at Jim’s?”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

“Sherlock, are you at Jim’s?

 

“Oh. Yes.”

 

“Go up to the roof. A helicopter will be there within five minutes. If you need anything, call 0845 xxx xxxx and ask for me.”

 

They waited on the roof, Moriarty unable to stand still. Within moments they heard the chopper and felt the wind as it descended. Moriarty grabbed the passenger door and jumped aboard, dragging Sherlock with him. It wasn't a long trip. Several blocks around the school were cordoned off.

 

“Whoa. I gotta land on that soccer field. The roof’s not safe.”

 

That was an understatement. Flames were jumping through the roof. Some flames came from doors. Others seemed to come from the sky. Yet more came out the windows. Moriarty pushed Sherlock out the door and ran out behind him.

 

“What now? What do I do now? I don’t know her schedule. I don’t even know what she looks like now except for photos and five minutes on her birthday. I’ve been told she looks like me, but what do I look like? Goddamn it, Sherlock, **help me**.”

 

Jim was starting to sound panicked. Sherlock did something he’d watched ordinary people do, but had never done himself. He put his arm around Moriarty to calm him.

 

“Let’s go, Jim. I’m sure the professionals out front will have more information.”

 

Moriarty moved like an automaton on overdrive. A uniformed police officer rushed toward them.

 

“You can’t be here. This is an emergency zone. I know you’re worried, but we’re doing our best to sort things out.”

 

“Let us through, idiot. We’re Scotland Yard.” Sherlock flashed his fake Lestrade ID at the uniformed young officer.

 

“Go on, then. Sorry about that.”

 

“Are there still kids in the building?” Moriarty asked.

 

“I’m not sure. You’d have to ask the fire department. But stay out of their way.”

 

Moriarty saw a firefighter carry a little kid out from the building. He couldn’t tell if the kid was alive. He ran to the firefighter. On closer inspection, it was obvious the girl was not alive.

 

“Where’d she come from? What floor? What room are the kids in? The kids that are still alive?”

 

“The cafeteria. They’re all gathered there. The ones who could make it. Hey, what the hell are you doing here? Civilians aren’t allowed—“

 

This time Jim flashed his ID. Detective Inspector, Scotland Yard. “Get out of my way **NOW**.”

 

Moriarty rushed past the firefighter into a veil of smoke. He immediately stuck his head back out.

 

“Which way’s the cafeteria?”

 

“First floor to your right. But you’re just going to be in the way--”

 

The firefighter gave up and tossed Moriarty a gas mask. “Be careful, mate. Just don’t make it any worse. Keep out of” He stopped, as he couldn’t catch site of Moriarty anymore.

 

Moriarty fastened the gas mask as he ran. Once inside he could barely see. There were children and firefighters everywhere. Some children were clearly dead. Moriarty ran to those who seemed in the best shape, picked up one under either arm, and threw them out one of the large open windows. “Run!” The firefighters seemed to be doing the same thing.

 

He picked up more children two at a time and threw them out the window. When he was finished with children who were able to sit or stand, he started picking up the prone ones. At one point firefighters began to hand him bodies at the window. He had no idea if they were dead or alive but didn’t want to waste the time to find out. They were all either dead or passed out from smoke inhalation, and Jim couldn’t manage more than one at a time. He kept tossing kids out the window one by one, not thinking. He kept this up until an actual firefighter appeared behind him and tossed him out the window. Firefighters finished clearing the cafeteria quickly. No more kids were being tossed out the window.

 

“You goddamn bloody idiot,” Sherlock shouted as he ran to Moriarty. “What on earth possessed you to do that? You probably made it worse, getting in the firefighters’ way. Were you trying to kill yourself? Congratulations, because you almost did.” Moriarty removed his mask. He began coughing uncontrollably.

 

“Take him to an ambulance,” a firefighter yelled over his shoulder. “Which are _supposed_ to be for the children. But I reckon your friend did his fair share of saving lives. Now get outta here and get outta our way.”

 

Sherlock all but carried Moriarty to the first ambulance he saw. It happened to be empty. The medics checked Moriarty’s vitals, then carefully placed him on a board and lay it on a stretcher. They added a cervical collar and rolled Moriarty in.

 

“You can get of here now,” one of the medics said to Sherlock.

 

“Not on your life.” Sherlock climbed in the ambulance and stood by Moriarty’s head.

 

“Well then get the bloody hell out of our way.” Sherlock moved against a wall of the vehicle, both eyes trained on Moriarty.

 

“How’s he doing?”

 

“Amazingly well. He’s that crazy bloke who ran into the cafeteria and tossed kids out the window, right?”

 

“Did he break any of them?”

 

“What?! You're worried about the _windows_?”

 

“The children.”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe a few scratches. Maybe a broken bone. But he bloody well saved their lives.”

 

“Where were the other firefighters? Was he in there all alone?”

 

“I gotta get back to work on him.”

 

“The other medic's doing just fine. Where were the bloody firefighters?”

 

The medic paused.

 

“Some of them were in there with him. I’m not sure but I think they might have lost quite a few in the upper floors.”

 

__ ~__

 

Moriarty lay on his back, either not hearing or not processing what he heard. He stared at the ambulance’s ceiling and coughed. Someone shoved an apparatus on his face. He ignored it. The problem was, he had no idea what his daughter looked like by now. Except he was told she looked like him. He could have saved her life, or she could have been long dead. It was pure luck that he even knew his daughter’s name. Natasha Price. The few hours eight years ago he’d spent drunk and miserable with her mother, those hours he wished he could forget. Unfortunately, he _had_ forgotten at the time why he’d long ago decided he’d never sleep with a woman. She was attractive enough, but the feel of her flesh, her breasts, her sex, made him almost literally gag. He wanted nothing more than to run out of the hotel room, naked if need be, but apparently his genitals had a mind of their own. They completed what they had started, although he had no idea he’d just added to the world population.

 

After throwing up on the floor and washing his face, he got dressed immediately and opened the hotel door to leave.

 

“Hey, I’m Amanda Price, if you give a damn.”

 

Moriarty shivered.

 

“Uh, right. Right. Jim Howard,” he told Amanda, the name he used at his loft. “I uh, I have to go now. NOW.”

 

He slammed the door and hailed a taxi back to his flat. He was too upset to notice that Amanda had started up her own car and was following him. She removed a small notepad from her purse and took note of his building address. She wrote his name next to it, just in case. Then she drove home. Ten days later she took a home pregnancy test. It was positive. She nearly shouted with delight.

 

__ ~__

 

 _Why am I thinking about Amanda? Where am I? What am I doing here? I don’t give a fuck about Amanda. Oh shit. Oh hell. Oh bloody hell. She’s the only way I have to find out if Natasha’s alive or not. Why the hell didn’t I insist on visiting? Amanda, I could have broken her neck with one hand. Why didn’t I? Oh, right, Natasha needed a parent. I’d make a terrible parent. Couldn’t even promise to pick her up at school on time. At school. Oh God. No. No. I did_ **not** _cause her death. I know I didn’t. But what the fuck does it matter, if she’s dead? I want Mycroft. He’d know. I want Sherlock. I want, apparently, to be removed from this ambulance. The two medics shifted him to a hospital gurney._

_“Don’t try to talk with that on,”_ one of the hospital employees chastised _._

“Fine. I’ll take it off” he mumbled. That was a rather painful process, but fast.

 

“You really shouldn’t — ”

 

“ _You_ really should shut up. See? I’m fine. No more coughing. No burns.” This wasn’t exactly true, but Moriarty wasn’t aware of it. And frankly, the hospital was spilling out the sides with children, most of them hurt much more badly than he was.

 

He stood up next to the gurney. “Please. Use this for someone who really needs it” _And leave me the bloody hell alone._ He made his way, fighting traffic, to the front desk, which looked as if it were occupied by crying muppets.

 

He flashed his Lestrade badge at one of the employees who was crying hardest. “Detective Inspector. Scotland Yard. One of these children is wanted by the  _Secret Intelligence Service_. Is she here?”

 

The muppets seemed to be in shock.

 

**“Natasha Price. Is she here?”**

A young man in scrubs leaned over the desk and grabbed the charts. “Price. Price. These aren’t exactly in perfect alphabetical order. “Princeton, Pace ah, here it is. Price. First name?”

 

“Natasha.”

 

The nurse gave him a funny look. “Your first name, Mr. Price?”

 

“Why the hell do you need my name? I want to see my daughter!”

 

“Just making sure you’re a relative.”

 

“Yeah I’m a relative. I’m her father.” Moriarty glared at the nurse.

 

“Ok, ok. She’s in room 208. But I’m not sure what kind of shape she’s”

 

Moriarty was long gone. He was staring through the glass door of room 208. He recognized Amanda as she left the room, her back to him Each year her hair seemed to look tackier and she’d put on more weight. Each _year_. He suspected he was only allowed to see Natasha for five minutes on her birthday to keep the child support coming. He’d have paid for Natasha to live in a palace even if he never saw her again.

 

She lay on her hospital bed, several bandages covering various parts of her arms and legs. He needn’t have worried about identifying her. She really did look like him. Huge brown eyes, long brown lashes ( _do I look like that?_ ) and what probably used to be long brown hair, now charred and burnt off in several places.

 

But she was alive. She’d survived. No one happened to be in the room with her at the moment. She was alone, crying.

 

“Hey, Natasha. Pretty scary morning, I’d guess.” Moriarty cringed as his daughter forced herself to stop crying.

  

_She pulled herself together. An eight-year-old kid shouldn’t have to do that. Where the hell was her mother?_

 

"I think I did something bad. I was one of the first kids to run for the cafeteria, even though I’m only eight. I didn’t see any way out, so I broke a window. Is that ok? I mean, I know I shouldn’t have done, but there were all these kids and smoke and fire. A firefighter yelled at me never to open windows in a fire, but I had to.”

 

“You’re a hero, darling. Don’t give it another thought.”

 

“Who are you? You look familiar, but I can’t remember who you are.”

 

A knife found its way into whatever served as Moriarty’s heart.

 

“I’m your father, kid. Remember every year I see on your birthday? At your mum's house?”

 

“Oh yeah. You always bring the best presents.”

 

“Well, I’m glad I’m remembered for the most important part.”

 

“Don’t be silly, Daddy. I remember you because you’re so cool. Mum is so annoying and never lets me do anything. She’s so stupid, and just talking to you I can tell you’re not like that.”

 

“Be careful of first impressions. Not of me. I change all the time but I’m always the same. I meant other people. Where’s your mum?”

 

“Getting coffee. And probably eating sweets. I guess she’s hungry. We’ve been here forever.”

 

“Yeah, well, hospitals tend to be like that.”

 

“You don’t work here, do you?”

 

“God no.”

 

“What kind of work do you do?”

 

"It's complicated. We'll talk about it later."

 

“Were you there today? Throwing kids out the window, wearing a mask?”

 

“What makes you think that?”

 

“I think I saw you before you put on the mask.. Also, you looked like you were having fun.”

 

“I did?! No. I was definitely **not** having fun."

 

Natasha started to cry. Her mother came in at that exact moment.

 

"It’s OK, Mummy. Guess what just happened.” She looked around the room and saw no sight of Moriarty. “Oh well. I guess he left.”

 

“Who left?”

 

“Daddy.”

   
__ ~__

 

 

“Well done,” a tall orderly told Moriarty as the two of them walked past Natasha’s room. “She seems to really like you. And if you were just a bit shorter, you’d look like twins.”

 

Moriarty elbowed Sherlock.

 

“Could you hear what we were saying?”

 

“Not so much. It’s pretty loud here; screaming children and parents and such.”

 

“Yeah. I feel guilty on about twenty levels. I’m not used to it, and I don’t like it.”

 

“You don’t still think this was your fault, do you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is there anything I can say to change your mind?”

 

“No.”

 

“Even though you saved who knows how many children’s lives this morning? You still think this was all your fault?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then we’ll talk about something else. I really need a cup of coffee.”

 

“Manna from Heaven.”

 

“Let’s get out of here. It’s quite depressing.”

 

“Really, honey? I was having a blast looking at burned children and hysterical parents. Not to mention shoving my way through them.”

 

Sherlock inhaled. He could take an insult when he had to.

 

“You want to leave?”

 

“Just for some coffee. I’m going to need your detective skills later to get some more time alone with Natasha.”

 

They’d just about reached the nurse’s station, normally a five second walk. Moriarty was beginning to shake uncontrollably. Sherlock produced a pair of sunglasses and put them on Moriarty’s nose. Moriarty gave him a tiny kiss.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Don’t leave me, ok? You can leave me if you have to, but do me a favor? Tell me you’re not going to leave me even if you are.”

 

Sherlock grabbed him and hugged Jim close. For a long time. Until he was kicked and poked so many times he had to give up. First, however, he placed his hands on Jim’s shoulders, stared at the huge brown eyes with his own strange reflective eyes, which were green at the time, and said “I’m not going to leave you, Jim. I don’t lie. If I say I’m not going to leave you, then I’m not. You probably have no idea how much you mean to me.”

 

“You can prove it, honey. Get me some coffee and nicotine gum.”

 

Moriarty and Sherlock eventually made their way out of the hospital.

 

Outside wasn’t much less crowded. The only difference was that most of the faces looking into the hospital were anxious. Most of the faces leaving the hospital were unrecognizable, obscured by tears.

 

Sherlock and Moriarty walked for a few blocks, and found a coffee shop that wasn’t overflowing. They ordered four large coffees to take out, and would have downed the first two if they weren’t so hot. Sherlock found a crumpled pack of cigarettes under the table. It wasn’t quite empty, and even had a matchbook shoved between the plastic and the packaging. The two men looked at each other for a moment, then Sherlock lit a cigarette for Jim, placed it in his mouth, and used the end to light his own cigarette. They enjoyed their cigarettes until the coffee had cooled enough to drink, then revelled in two of their favorite activities.

 

Strangely, the nicotine and caffeine calmed them down. Sherlock stretched his legs, and left one pressing on Jim’s thigh. Neither of them wanted to move, ever. But something very odd and fortuitous had just happened. Right in front of their eyes. Through the shop window, they saw Amanda hail a taxi and drive off. Away from the hospital. They each threw some cash on the table, took their second coffees, and ran for the hospital, room 208.

 

When they arrived at 208, Natasha was alone, which infuriated Moriarty. _What kind of mother--?_ Sherlock whispered that she was feigning sleep. She opened one eye, smiled at her father, and asked “Who's he?”

 

"A friend. A very good friend." 

 

“I know. I mean, I think I knew that. I don’t know. I’m only eight, you know. He seems nice.”

 

_Nice isn't exactly the word I'd use to describe him._

 

“I wish you lived with us like normal daddies.”

 

Jim snorted. “I don’t think your mother would agree.”

 

Natasha sighed. “You’re probably right. I love her, cause she’s my mum, but she’s so incredibly ordinary.”

 

Jim and Sherlock exchanged a look.  _Did she really just say that?_ they thought simultaneously.

 

“And you?” Sherlock stared her in the eyes. He tended to do that. “You’re not ordinary?”

 

“No, not at all. I hate ordinary.”

 

Jim felt that he was handling this situation backwards and upside-down. He wished he had a pocket-sized  _Fatherhood A-Z Visitor's Guide._

 

“Honey, sweetie pie, daughter of my loins. Listen. This is important. You don’t have to be ordinary to be scared. You’re acting like the only reason you’re in hospital is an infected toe.”

 

Natasha’s faced changed. It was subtle, but she seemed a different child. “I know why I’m here. Someone tried to burn my school down while it was full of kids. People like that should be killed.” Her voice began to quiver. “But what good does it do if I just listen to people tell me how lucky I am. I’m not lucky. Most of my friends are probably dead and it was completely terrifying and thinking about it’s not going to change anything so why should I? I hate emotions. Life is so much better without them.” Maybe so, but she was crying hard.

 

Moriarty sat on the edge of her bed and held her hand. She sat up and hugged him. It must have hurt, but she hugged him really tight.

 

“Daddy? Don’t leave me. Please. Don’t leave me with Mummy and only see me to give me gifts on my birthday. You're my Daddy. Please don’t leave me.”

 

“I won’t, honey. I might not always be there, but I’ll never leave you.”

 

“That didn’t make any sense, but I think I might be asleep.”

 

Moriarty poked her awake. “Sorry to bother you, but can you tell me your phone number? And your mum's?”

 

Natasha yawned and said “sure.” She gave her father the numbers. “Can I have your number, too?”

 

"I’ll write it down for you.” Natasha was half asleep and Moriarty didn’t trust her to remember. He sat with her for a long time, until he began to feel sleepy himself. He would have stayed forever, but Sherlock nudged him and pointed to Natasha’s mother, who was trying to make her way to room 208. The two men left and walked quickly in the other direction, successfully putting off the inevitable. Moriarty felt guilty leaving his daughter right after promising her he wouldn’t, but it was a complicated situation. He had a complicated life. He had a complicated daughter. And he wasn’t about to give up on her.

 

Sherlock ducked into a maintenance closet and exchanged the orderly uniform for his regular clothes. His coat had survived being sat upon by a drenched Moriarty, and looked as dashing as ever. The dashing man and the man covered with soot and grime left the side door of the hospital to take a taxi home. Home being Moriarty’s penthouse. They held hands and leaned against each other in the back seat. They generally made a point of not touching outside, but this was not a generally sort of day.

 


	11. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty has serial nightmares about hurting his daughter.
> 
> Sherlock tries but is unable to help.
> 
> Moriarty visits Amanda, his daughter's mother.

“No! No! Oh God, NO!!!”

 

Sherlock shook Moriarty. When nothing else worked, he finally punched him.

 

Moriarty looked terrified.

 

“Get away from me!!!”

 

“Jim, it’s just another nightmare. This is Sherlock. You’re awake now. Tell me about your dream.”

 

Jim turned his pillow over. It was soaked with sweat.

 

“They keep getting worse, Sherlock. This time I was back on the London Eye. I was dangling Natasha over the side by her hair. She caught fire. I was bloody dangling her on fire. I heard her shout ‘Daddy don’t! I’ll tell!” I froze and let her drop, from the top of the Ferris Wheel, on fire. I couldn’t see her then; only a blaze of fire falling from the Eye. Everyone else on the ride started shooting flame throwers at me. I jumped. Jumping wasn’t even the bad part. It was dangling her, dangling her on fire. I did nothing to help her. I just let her go.”

 

Sherlock was silent for a while.

 

“Say something!”

 

“I was reviewing the information I’ve stored on dream interpretation. I was in the middle of Freud when you interrupted me.”

 

“Freud’s dream interpretations have been discredited.”

 

“I’m aware. I was looking for something that would discredit the importance of your dreams.”

 

“Bloody hell you were.”

 

Sherlock rarely raised his voice, but he did so now. “I was _trying_ to help you!”

 

Moriarty sighed. “I know. It’s just that most people might consider giving me a hug.”

 

“You know that I hate hugs. Would you rather I pretend to comfort you the way _ordinary_ people do? Or would you prefer I do it my way, no pretense?”

 

“Don’t hate me, Sherlock. Not now. Please don’t hate me right now.”

 

“I don’t hate you. Well, I do, but not right now. I’m frustrated. You’re a problem I can’t solve.”

 

Moriarty buried his head under his pillow.

 

“By oh.”

 

“What?”

 

Moriarty removed the pillow.

 

“I know. Maybe I should see a shrink. Though I’m not sure how well it would go:

 

            “I’m Jim. I’m here because I have nightmares about murdering my daughter.”

 

            “Well, Jim, dreams reveal a lot about ourselves. Why do you think you want to murder your daughter?”

 

            “I don’t, you bloody idiot. If that’s what I wanted, they’d be good dreams, not nightmares.”

 

            “You know the acts we perform in our dreams can mirror the acts we want to perform in real life.”

 

            “I **know** the reason behind these dreams. I hired the criminals to set fire to four schools, including hers. They screwed up and set the schools on fire during the school day, not at night when the schools would be empty.”

 

            “I see. Do you have any plans to kill people in the future?”

 

            “Of course I do. That’s my profession. I’m a consulting criminal. Usually I don’t bother with crimes other than murder. I commission them. I don’t like to get my hands dirty." Moriarty instinctively looked at his hands. "Oh dear. I’m in extreme need of a manicure.”

 

“So tell me, dearest Sherlock, would you come visit me in prison? Do unmarried gays get conjugal visiting rights?”

 

Sherlock got up and began playing violin.

 

“You bloody bastard! You’re my partner. I need your help!”

 

“I tried. You didn’t want to avail yourself of my help. So I’m doing something useful instead. You know that playing the violin helps me think. Perhaps I’ll think of a way to help you that will actually work.”

 

Sherlock kept playing, dissonant and loud.

 

“Maybe I should set _you_ on fire and drop you out the window.”

 

“Please spare my violin. It’s a Stradivarius.”

 

Moriarty put on his “Sherlock robe” and slammed the bedroom door behind him. He almost tripped over the hem, but he wasn’t about to exchange it for the “Jim robe.”

 

_I need to kill someone. That always makes me feel better. But who? Rule one: they must be over 18 years old. Rule two: I must actually want the specific person to be dead. Rule three: I’ve got to do it myself._

Moriarty realised he wanted most people dead. They were all adults. None of them were worth killing in person.

 

Well, maybe one.

 

He picked up his phone and called Amanda.

  

Moriarty stared at the phone number. He knew he should delete it. There was no doubt in his mind he had to delete it. He was sure he’d done enough damage to his daughter already. He amazed himself by really, truly, not wanting to hurt her any more than he already had. He was in love with Sherlock, and he adored hurting him. But this was entirely different. _Aren’t fathers supposed to set an example? There’s a good reason I’ve stayed out of her life._

 

He called the number.

 

“Hullo?” The voice sounded petulant. Also maybe a little bit impaired. _Drugs or drink?_

 

“Hi. Jim Price here.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Natasha’s father. We never got to properly introduce ourselves.”

 

“Oh. You.”

 

“Brilliant deduction. I generally make my own phone calls.” _Idiot. Don’t antagonize her already._

“I’m sorry. That was unpardonably rude of me. It was wonderful to see you again.”

 

“Yeah right. Tell me something I don’t know. Bastard. You decide to walk into my daughter’s life on the day her school burned down? Great timing, mate. As I recall, you always had great timing. One two three done.”

 

_That’s because you’re a miserable slut, bitch. And the wrong gender, besides. Though it doesn’t matter. Who could possibly want you?”_

 

“So, uh, it was great to see Amanda. Natasha. I meant Natasha.”

 

No answer.

 

“If it weren’t for the money, I’d cut your bloody throat.”

 

“My pleasure. I want to see more of Natasha.”

 

“I want to see more money.”

 

“More than a million pounds a year?! You’ve got expensive tastes, honey.”

 

“Not when it comes to you.”

 

“Oh, darling, you don’t know the half of it.”

 

“Why should I let you see Natasha? You’re a bloody photograph to her.”

 

“Not entirely, love. She told me I gave the best birthday presents.”

 

“A fucking toy gun? A toy spear thrower? I didn’t know they made those. What happened to Barbies?”

 

“I’m certain she has more than her share. Do you know that scientists have proved that if Barbie were a real women, with Barbie’s measurements, she’d be unable to stand upright? Her breasts would make her topple over.”

 

“And why should I care?”

 

“Oh, no particular reason. Natasha’s my **daughter** and I’d like to give her a little taste of the **real** world. You know. The one she’s going to grow up in?”

 

“Like birthday presents meant to kill?”

 

“Bloody hell, Amanda. Those were **toy weapons.** Why shouldn’t girls be allowed to play with toy weapons?”

 

“Are you done?”

 

“The hell I’m done. You’re a fat stupid asshole. I want my daughter to be exposed to a reason for living in the real world. She hates you, you know.”

 

“She hates everyone. It’s part of being an eight-year-old child. Which you’d know if you paid attention to being a father.”

 

_You can’t kill her over the phone. Slow down. Take it easy. Enjoy it. Don’t make it worse.”_

 

“Yeah, I was thinking of that yesterday.”

 

Silence. Moriarty could swear he heard the sound of a cigarette being lit.

 

“Cigarettes are going to kill you, you know? Then Natasha would have neither a mother nor a father.”

 

“They’re not gonna kill me while she’s still a kid. Why this sudden interest?”

 

“Because I met her. Unsupervised. She’s a great kid. I don’t want to give her up.”

 

“It’s about eight years too late for that.”

 

_That sound was a swallow. No doubt. Though it doesn’t rule out pills, too._

“You let me see her when she was born, then entirely disappeared. Five minutes a year. To give her bloody birthday presents. And those photos. To remind me what I’m missing out on.”

 

Moriarty checked his watch.

 

“You always drink at ten in the morning?”

 

“What’sh it to you?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I care about how **my daughter** is being brought up?”

 

“When you think she’s dead in a fire?”

 

_You don’t know the half of it, baby._

 

“That’s not fair. I bloody rushed to the school to try to save her. Where were you?”

 

“Watching it on telly, like the police told us to do.”

 

Jim wished he was born in the age of physical communication phones. He wanted to smack her.

 

“Good little mama. I’m so proud of you. Listen up. I’m not having any more of this. Let me see Natasha, on a regular basis, or I’m turning you in.”

 

“Into what?”

 

“Scotland Yard, **doofus**. I’ve got connections. Even if I didn’t, the courts don’t look highly upon single mother prostitute drug addicts.”

 

“What the hell gives you the right to call me a prostitute?”

 

“Maybe cause I paid you for the unmitigated pleasure of conceiving Natasha?”

 

“That was years ago. I don’t do that now.”

 

“Really? You sure the extra weight and frizzy hair has nothing to do with it?”

 

“Shut up. I see men for entirely different reasons now.”

 

“At work?”

 

“No. At home. But I never take money. Payment is always in drugs, no exception.”

 

“Oh great. And Natasha has no idea of this?”

 

“She’s not home when it happens. What kind of mother do you think I am? And she has no idea where I hide the drugs or even that I take them.”

 

_Right._

 

“Listen. This conversation has clearly gotten off to a very bad start. Can I come see you and we can talk in person?”

 

“I don’t see why not. You couldn’t possibly be more offensive in person than you are now.”

 

_You have no idea, darling._

 

“Great. What are you doing right now?”

 

“Talking to an asshole.”

 

“Besides that.”

 

“Watching telly.”

 

“Can I come over to try again?”

 

“Why not. Since you're making me miss my shows anyhow.”

 

Amanda gave Jim her address.

 

“See you soon, love.”

 

Amanda hung up.

\-- ~ --

 

 

Moriarty burst into his bedroom, ignored Sherlock’s violin playing, and put on one of his favorite suits and ties. And socks to match.

 

“I’m leaving now.”

 

Violin continued.

 

“Let me know when your Strad has given you an idea how to help me.”

 

Violin continued.

 

\-- ~ --

 

Moriarty stormed out his front door and looked up Amanda’s address. _Slummy. Slummy on several million pounds a year? The price of drugs must have gone up. Got to ask Sherlock about that._

 

He pounded on the front door, then wiped his fist on his trousers.

 

“Just a minute, asshole.”

 

Amanda opened the door and confirmed Sherlock’s worst fears. She had a cigarette in one hand, a drink in another, and wore a loosely tied dressing gown Mrs Hudson would have been embarrassed to be seen in. A bottle of prescription pills was in danger of falling out of a pocket.

 

“Hi!” Moriarty flashed his biggest smile. It was wasted.

 

“So come the fuck in already. Got anything to say for yourself?”

 

Moriarty stuck out a hand. “Jim Price. Pleased to meet you.”

 

Amanda ignored his hand. She was holding a drink in hers.

 

“Jim Price. Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

 

_You already are, sweetums. You need to be acquainted with a pair of tweezers._

 

“Can I come in? Vampires need to be invited in, you know.”

 

“Huh? Yeah, come in.”

 

The house was exactly as Moriarty had imagined. Ripped chintz, stained carpets, swaying mother. She almost missed her seat, and would have ended up on the floor had she not set her drink on a side table. A scratched, burned side table. Something fell in his lap. It was a piece of ceiling paint. He looked up and noticed the entire ceiling was peeling.  _I hope that's not lead paint._  

 

“So whadda ya want?”

 

“I thought I’d made that clear over the phone. I’d like extended visiting rights with Natasha. My daughter.”

 

“And what makes you think I’d agree to that? Blackmail? You gonna stop sending money?”

 

“Of course not. Natasha is my daughter. I’d simply like to spend more time with her.”

 

A cheap chintz curtain blew into his face. When he pushed it away, it disintegrated.

 

A key sounded in the front door. Natasha walked in, encumbered by a giant backpack and a book she was holding in her hand.

 

“Daddy!” She dropped the book, slipped off the backpack, and ran to hug him. “This is so cool! Mummy, did you invite him here? I’m so happy!”

 

“Hardly. He invited himself.”

 

“It's so good to see you again, Daddy.” She hugged him tighter and gave him a kiss.

 

“Is Daddy going to be staying with us?”

 

 _Not on your life,_ both adults thought.

 

“No. He’s here for a visit. The last visit you’ll ever get from him. From now on, it’s presents and photos only.”

 

 _And quite a bit of money,_ Moriarty thought.

 

“No. Why? I love Daddy.”

 

“You only think you do cause you’ve just met him.”

 

“No! I met him ages ago. And I still love him more than you.”

 

Amanda slapped Natasha on the face, hard.

 

“What did you just say, young lady?”

 

Natasha started to cry.

 

“I just meant...” She trailed off into sobbing.

 

Jim pulled his Glock out and swung it around on his finger.

 

“What do you think, Natasha? You want to take the shot? Or should I do it?”

 

"Oh, let me do it, Daddy.” She reached for the gun, which slipped easily off Moriarty’s finger. “So how do I use this?”

 

“Like so.” Moriarty held his daughter’s hand over the pistol. “First you turn the safety off. Then you point it and take aim. Then you shoot.” He had to refrain from grabbing the gun and shooting Amanda himself.

 

“Like this?” Natasha kept her finger tight over the trigger, underneath her Daddy’s finger. She pulled the trigger, and missed her mother by a few feet.

 

“Close. More like this.” Moriarty applied more pressure on Natasha’s trigger finger, aimed the Glock, and helped his daughter pull the trigger.

 

“Bulls eye!” he said. “You’re a natural.”

 

Natasha giggled. “No, Daddy, you shot her. I just helped. Is she really dead? I hope so!”

 

“I don’t know. Looks like it. Let’s check.”

 

He and Natasha approached Amanda.

 

“Phew. What’s that stink?”

 

“It means she’s dead.”

 

“Yay! Can you stay here with me now?”

 

“I could, but I’d much rather you stay with me. My flat’s very nice, and it has a great view. And a goose.”

 

“A goose? Cool! Let me just get some stuff."

 

Natasha ran upstairs and returned balancing her toy guns and a teddy bear.

 

"This is so wonderful, Daddy. We killed the monster and now you can teach me how to do it on my own. There's so many people at school I'd like to kill, if they're still alive after the fire. It's so much fun!"

 

_Have I overdone it? Should she really feel like that? Is it that much fun for me? Well, actually, it is. Genetics. She took after the right parent._

 

“So you think you can get rid of me so easily? You really think I'd stay dead?” Amanda stood up, the red spots on her cheeks and nose faded to white. Her skin had come loose and was dripping from her body all over her robe and onto the floor. “Not on your life.”

 

“Mummy? What’s wrong with you? Why are you standing up? What's happened to your skin? We just shot you. You're dead.”

 

"You think?" Amanda leapt with surprising speed and grabbed her daughter. She was salivating and grinning.

 

“Daddy, help! Help me! She’s trying to bite me! HELP!!!”

 

\-- ~ --

 

“No! No! Oh God, NO!!!” Moriarty was frozen to the spot.

 

Sherlock shook him, then, when nothing else worked, finally punched him.

 

Moriarty looked terrified.

 

“Get away from me!!!”

 

“Jim, it’s just another nightmare. This is Sherlock. You’re awake now. Tell me about your dream.”


	12. Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sherlock's birthday.
> 
> Jim decides to give him a unique birthday gift.
> 
>  
> 
> More to come on Natasha next chapter.

“No! No! Oh God, NO!!!”

 

Sherlock shook Moriarty, then, when nothing else worked, finally punched him.

 

Moriarty looked terrified.

 

“Get away from me!!!”

 

“Jim, it’s just another nightmare. This is Sherlock. You’re awake now. Tell me about your dream.”

 

 

__ ~ __

 

  

“Didn’t this just happen? Is this **déjà vue?** Have I said this before?”

 

“Not to me. You said it once when you woke up. Another of your recurring nightmares, I presume?”

 

“Did you stop talking to me and play violin over my voice?”

 

“No. I don’t hate you that much. I was here in bed with you when you began screaming. My violin is in the corner. I couldn’t reach it from bed had I wanted to.”

 

“Then none of it really happened. It was all a dream.”

 

“Unless you astral projected out of bed, of course it was a dream.”

 

“A nightmare.”

 

“If you prefer. Tell me about it.”

 

Moriarty ran through everything that he thought had happened. Sherlock laughed at the imagined psychiatric visit.

 

“Sherlock, I’m serious. This was a horrid nightmare and I’m trying to figure it out. I don’t need you laughing at me.”

 

“Can I help it if you’re witty?”

 

“I’m glad you didn’t say ‘funny.’ I would have killed you for that.”

 

“I considered it. ‘Funny’ seemed a misuse of the word. I’m glad I made the correct choice. I wouldn’t be here talking to you if you killed me. I thought we’d promised to wait for that.”

 

“Sherlock. I’m shaking. Can’t you see I’m not interested in linguistics? I’m terrified the dream will come true.”

 

“It’s a quandary. You’re afraid your daughter will end up like her mother, and you’re afraid she’ll end up like you.”

 

“There’s not exactly a third choice, honey.”

 

“So look at the choices that exist. Neither strikes me as a good idea. You’re brilliant. I’m sure your waking mind will come up with a solution.”

 

“I wish you weren’t so bloody critical. Feel my forehead.”

 

“I’d rather not, since I can see it’s covered with sweat.”

 

“That was what I meant, oh brilliant detective of mine.”

 

“Shut up and stop being ridiculous. You had a nightmare about your fears. That’s hardly unusual, verging on _ordinary_. It was a dream. It didn’t happen. It’s not real.”

 

“Is your mind palace real?”

 

“Good point. I’ll think about it after I go back to sleep. You woke me. I’m tired.”

 

“Can you just hold me for a bloody minute? I’m really scared.”

 

“It never fails to amaze me what people can be frightened of. Things that never happened are high on the list.”

 

Sherlock turned on his side and spooned Moriarty.

 

“Forget it, sweetie. If I wanted to be held by a brick wall, I’d resurrect Edgar Allan Poe. Never mind. Just goes to show how shaken up I am, that I’d ask to be held by you. You might as well be a street light post with arms.”

 

“Interesting thought.”

 

“Oh shut up and go back to sleep.”

 

Sherlock kissed the back of Moriarty’s head, while rubbing his back.

 

“Better?”

 

“The lengths you go to prove you don’t always hate me never cease to amaze me.”

 

“I do hate you. You woke me up in the middle of the night with a crazy story that makes no sense, and asked me if it was real. I hate banality. But I love you too.”

 

Sherlock rolled Moriarty over for a real kiss, which led to another and eventually left Moriarty too tired and satisfied to worry about his dream.

 

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

 

“I thought we were finished talking. I’m exhausted.”

 

“Not the tiniest bit relaxed, darling?”

 

“Yes. That’s why I’m exhausted.”

 

“Shut up and go to sleep, moron.”

 

Moriarty heard no more from Sherlock except for an occasional snore. He wondered why he found Sherlock’s snores so comforting. Then he wondered nothing. He was asleep. Even Goose’s honk for being accidentally thrown off the bed didn’t wake him.

 

__ ~ __

 

Moriarty woke up at 08:00 sharp. He was still tired, but knew he couldn’t possibly fall back asleep. He felt murderous. He wanted to kill someone at close range. No phone calls to mess things up. No doing what someone else would pay him for. He wanted to kill someone he knew. Someone he hated. Someone worth killing.

 

Sgt. Sally Donovan. Sherlock had complained about her often, saying she called him a “freak” and a “psychopath.” Moriarty had laughed at that one. Sherlock was no psychopath. There were no psychopaths on the side of the angels. But he was perfectly willing to get rid of her for Sherlock’s sake.

 

He picked up his phone and dialed the non-emergency number for Scotland Yard. He pitched his voice as high as he could. An officer answered. _She must be very low on the totem pole to answer phone calls._

 

“Hello, officer. My name is Sally Hunter. I have a terrible problem I thought you might be able to help me with. Of course it’s not very important. I don’t want to waste your time. Just a quick question. I’m Sally Donovan’s cousin from America. I flew all the way here to surprise her. She’s getting married, you know. I mean, it’s supposed to be a surprise. Oh my goodness. Did I give it away?” Moriarty giggled.

 

“Please get to the point, ma’am.”

 

“Oh. I’m so sorry. I really don’t want to waste your time. You see, I left my address book in my other purse and my other purse is in America and I’m afraid I’ve gone and forgotten her address. Silly me. Would you happen to know her home address?”

 

“We’re not in the habit of giving out detectives’ home phone numbers. Isn’t there someone else you could call?”

 

“Oh my dear. I wish so. But I don’t know a soul in London and my friends at home thought it so silly of me to cross the ocean to see Sally. Honestly, I’m embarrassed to call. I feel so foolish, coming all the way here without her address. My friends would think I’m an absolute-“

 

“Alright. Alright. We need to keep this line open for important crimes. Give me a moment.” Moriarty heard desk drawers opening and paper ruffling. Finally the officer found the Detective’s address and recited it. Moriarty immediately memorized it. “Are you going to remember, ma’am? Because I broke several rules for you and I’m not going to do it again.”

 

“Oh, of course I’ll remember.” _But that’s a good point._ Moriarty made shuffling noises and asked for the number one more time. He wrote it down, just in case.

 

“Thank you, dear. You’ve been such a help. It’s so kind of you. Most people—“

 

The line went dead.

 

Moriarty make a habit of knowing all the districts in London, from the darkest slums to 10 Downing Street. He knew exactly where Detective Donovan lived. Typical lower middle class. He put on his best suit, and let Goose play with his shoes while putting them on. He took a cab and got out about three blocks away from Donovan’s flat. He walked around, found a dark alley, and left satisfied.

 

He already knew Detective Donovan’s schedule from Sherlock. It was a Thursday. She was most likely working late. Excellent.

 

Moriarty went back to his flat and relaxed over a cup of coffee and Bach. Sherlock emerged yelling “Coffee! Coffee! I need coffee!”

 

“Would you like some coffee?”

 

“Yes. Would you fetch me some?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Why should I?”

 

“Because it’s my birthday and I don’t do odious chores on my birthday.”

 

“Really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“Because I hate celebrating my birthday.”

 

“Then why, darling, did you tell me at all?”

 

“Because I wanted you to fetch me a cup of coffee.”

 

“Oh, alright then. Since it’s your birthday.”

 

Moriarty was delighted. _What a wonderful present for Sherlock, to rid him of Detective Sally Donovan’s presence. She sounds like a royal pain in the ass._

 

Moriarty left for the kitchen, found a beautiful and expensive china mug, and filled it. Against his will, he added two sugars. _It’s criminal to destroy such delicious coffee with sugar._

 

“Here you go. I can’t carry a tune so we’ll skip the happy birthday song.”

 

Sherlock ignored him. He was entirely focused on his coffee.

 

“So, what time is it?”

 

“21.04.”

 

“Right. I’ve got to go out for a bit. Your birthday and all.”

 

“If you give me a present, I shall be forced to kill you.”

 

“No worries. I’m not bringing you home a present. I’ve got to change first.” He put on his Jim from IT clothes, along with a baseball hat and dirty white trainers.

 

“I hate those clothes.”

 

“I know. I’d want you to be naked all the time if I got to choose.”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer.

 

“See you later, Sweetums.”

 

Moriarty hailed a taxi and headed toward an open door he’d seen in the alley. He waited. He waited some more. He seemed to wait forever. No matter. Moriarty was in no particular hurry. Finally he saw Detective Donovan pull up to her driveway. He ran to meet her.

 

“Ma’m! Ma’am. Stop. Please help me. I’ve been mugged. And tossed around like a baseball. Could you please call the police for me?”

 

“I am the police.” Donovan turned around and hurried toward Moriarty/Jim from IT. He looked a mess. His forehead was bloody. His trousers were ripped at the knee. His gloves were ripped on the sides. He looked helpless and forlorn.

 

“Oh, thank you officer. Bless you. I can’t thank you enough.”

 

“So what exactly happened?”

 

“I was taking a shortcut and three teenagers mugged me. One of them had a knife. When he attacked me, I swear I thought I was going to die.”

 

“Did they take anything? What about that bag of yours?”

 

“They opened it but it only contains my dirty gym clothes. They took my wallet and my wedding ring. I don’t know how I’m going to tell my wife. Wait! Wait a minute. I think I see the ring!” Moriarty turned his back on Donovan and ran a few metres down the alley. “I did! I found my ring!” He sighed dramatically.

 

“Officer! Come look! I found my wedding ring.”

 

Donovan walked to Moriarty. He shoved his body on hers, forcing her to the ground. She protested, but he was stronger. He struck her on the forehead repeatedly with a large, sharp rock he’d taken from the alley earlier. He kept striking until he knew there was no chance she was still alive. He turned her over and struck her repeatedly in the back of the head. Finally he bent over, listened for breath, and heard none. He listened for a few more minutes, just to be sure she hadn’t been holding her breath. Either she had lungs with the capacity of an elephant, or she was dead. He judged the latter to be much more likely. He threw the rock in a dumpster, still, of course, wearing tattered gloves that covered his fingertips.

 

Moriarty headed quickly to a doorway he’d noticed earlier. He opened his bag and put on a suit and shirt over his Jim at IT clothes. He admired himself in the streetlight reflecting on the doorway window. He slicked his hair back, took a tube from his coat pocket, and covered his head with it, making his hair stay in place. He glanced at the side of the alley he’d entered. No one. He walked quickly out the other side of the alley. No one. It really was a dangerous alley and one of the best spots to be mugged in London. He hailed a cab and stated his destination, a few blocks from his building, He gave the cabbie a 15% tip (much lower than usual, but he didn’t want to be remembered for anything.) When he exited the cab, he walked confidently away from his building until he saw the cab disappear around a corner. He slapped his head and shouted “Idiot!” in case anyone was watching.

 

He turned around, walked toward his building, nodded at the ever-present manager, and took the lift to his flat. When he opened the door, he was overwhelmed with honking and a goose rubbing against his leg. _You couldn’t have done that in my Jim from IT clothes, could you?_ Goose rubbed up against him and he reached down and patted her head.

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock?” _Is he out celebrating his birthday with Mycroft? Not bloody likely.”_  Sherlock appeared dripping wet, wearing his Jim robe.

 ...

“What’s so bloody important that I can’t finish my shower?”

 

“You, you moron. I have a birthday gift for you.”

 

“I told you I didn’t want you to buy anything for me.”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

“You stole something for me.”

 

“Nope.”

 

“You’re giving me a new set of violin strings?”

 

“No, but that’s a bloody good idea. Wish I’d thought of it. No, I’m not giving you anything. I’ve subtracted.”

 

Sherlock’s mind ran through the possibilities. _Clothing? It’s highly unlikely he stole any of my clothes. He wouldn’t be caught dead in any of my attire. My violin? Absurd. My shoes? They wouldn’t fit. My stash? Not Jim. A record he particularly hated? Unlikely, as they shared the same musical tastes._ He looked hard at Moriarty.

 

“Have you gained weight for my birthday? Given me a more comfortable belly pillow?

 

Moriarty stripped off his suit, and looked his normal size when wearing only his Jim at IT clothes.

 

“Ok. I give up. What have you subtracted?”

 

“You know that horrid detective Sally Donovan? The one who you say calls you a freak and generally despises you?”

 

Sherlock groaned. “How could I forget her. Did you nick her badge?”

 

“It’s your birthday, honey. I’ve done better than that. I’ve nicked her life.”

 

“WHAT?!!”

 

“I killed her. I was extremely careful. Zero to one percent chance of being caught. Except if you were investigating, in which case I’m sure you’d immediately figure it out and come up with a plausible alternative. She annoys you. She insults you every time you visit Scotland Yard. I thought you’d be pleased that I’ve done away with her.”

 

“You idiot! She works for Lestrade! He’ll likely call me in on the case.”

 

“And you will determine that she was mugged, robbed, then killed by the lower evolution of humans who hang around the alley near her house.”

 

“Possibly. It’s a piece of cake to mislead Lestrade.”

 

“Bloody Hell! I forget your birthday cake.”

 

“No worries. I have something better in mind. And, um, erm, thank you, Jim, for such a thoughtful present. I should ask for birthday presents more often. No more Detective Donovan. I am overflowing with emotion.” He took Moriarty’s hand and kissed the back, as if Moriarty were a queen at a ball. _A queen, maybe. A ball, definitely not._

 

“Have I told you lately how much I love you, Jim?”

 

“No. You never tell me unless I forcibly extract it like a rotten tooth.”

 

Sherlock bowled Jim over. He actually smiled. Grinned. He was happy.

 

“So, what is it you have in mind that’s better than killing Sally?”

 

“I thought we’d share some celebratory cocaine in bed, and see where things go from there.”

 

Moriarty, who had not been overly impressed with the entire cocaine experience the first time, decided to let it go. It _was_ Sherlock’s birthday.

 

“Sounds extremely delicious.”

 

He followed Sherlock into the bedroom, where Sherlock took off his robe and was completely naked.

 

“Is this part of the game, or should I remove my clothes too?”

 

“I’ll take care of that.” And he did.

 

“You know we can always skip the cocaine and go straight to dessert.”

 

“Not on your life. And it’s my birthday. I get to decide.” Sherlock brought some cut cocaine and a rolled-up note. “This shouldn’t knock you out so much.”

 

_I hope not. I don’t want to miss dessert._

 

They missed nothing and prepared for the end of the birthday celebration. Moriarty asked “This isn’t your birthday, is it?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“Thought so. I can’t decide whether I hate you or love you more.”

 

Sherlock ran his fingers delicately down Moriarty’s chest, then further down.

 

“I think it’s weighted on love, at the moment. But don’t take this as forever, honey. I’m always in a ravenous mood after killing someone.”

 

“Isn’t it convenient that there are so many _ordinary_ people in the world, people who wouldn’t be missed.”

 

Jim showed his agreement. Sherlock had the loveliest non-birthday celebration immediately in his life.


	13. Spring Cleaning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock cleans up Moriarty's crime scene.
> 
> Moriarty meets Natasha's mother and decides to temporarily adopt her while her mother is in the US.

Sherlock couldn’t sleep. He was too worried about his non-birthday present.  _Why the hell did Jim have to kill Lestrade’s second-in-command? Wouldn’t a homeless person have been just as effective? He knew that the police would be especially diligent about one of their own, even though no one particularly liked her except her deodorant sharing boyfriend._

_I’ve got to do something about this, and fast. It was 3:00; certainly no one was looking for her yet._ He wished he was home, where he stored all his disguises. But he wasn’t. He was at Jim’s. He didn’t want to return home; too obvious. He remembered once he’d been bored and looked through Jim’s walk-in closet. All the way on the side was a small collection of Jim’s disguises: women’s clothes. For the first time in his life, Sherlock wished he were shorter _. Needs must_. He saw a bunch of wigs on a shelf, and picked out a dull brown wig of no particular style. The clothes were ridiculous.  _What on earth is Jim doing with these in his closet? Does he have a secret girlfriend?_ Sherlock noticed a long black stretchy skirt that might work. He took the wig and dress, and raided Jim’s side of the closet for a back shirt. He found a big baggy black sweater _. OK, now we’re getting there._

He doubted Jim would bother with a bra, but there were three of them with the wigs. He chose the smallest, along with prostheses made for the small brassiere. Jim certainly takes his disguises seriously. On the far left were several pairs of shoes. Sherlock chose a pair of sensible shoes, with low heels that wouldn’t impede his running. Although they did pinch his toes. _Better too small than too big. I don't want them falling off._ He took off his clothes down to his pants and put on the outfit. He looked at himself in the mirror in the closet. Not too bad. I look like a crazy lady. Appropriate. He nearly tripped over what turned out to be a pair of black leggings that had fallen from the wigs shelf. I really should ask Jim about this. Excellent. The leggings completed the disguise. He looked like one of the ugliest women he’d ever seen. He grabbed a large hat and a plain jacket, put them on, turned off the closet light, and snuck out of Jim’s bedroom. He heard only snores. Good _._

He figured he looked as reasonable as possible.  _Oh! The cocaine! And gloves_. Jim had told him to stash the rest of the cocaine in a hiking sock. He found a pair of tight stretchy black gloves with lace trim at the wrist in Jim’s underwear drawer. He put them on anyhow. Eew. He definitely had to talk to Jim about this. He shoved aside some ladies’ underwear. No. This is where I draw the line. What the bloody hell is Jim doing with lady’s underwear? He knew Jim was a perfectionist, but this was taking disguise too far. Anyone who saw the underwear would also see what was inside it. Finally he found the hiking glove, felt around and found the same baggie he’d used the previous night. He poured what was left of the cocaine into a new baggie _._

_Disguise. Check. Shoes and hat. Check. Gloves. Check. Untouched zip-lock bag of cocaine in his pocket. Check._ He shoved the cocaine into his pocket. The black lace was on the top of the gloves, so fingerprints weren’t an issue. His inner map of the city served him well. Of course he’d seen the address Jim had scribbled on a piece of a paper, labeled “Sally.” How on earth had he stayed a free man when he labeled his clues? Jim’s gloves fit surprising well. As if they’d been made for a man. Stop it, Sherlock told himself. Stick to the matter at hand.

He took the lift down to the lobby. No one nodded at him. He left and stood outside, freezing. Jim’s jacket might look nice but it wasn’t very warm.

He looked right and left. No one in sight. He wished he could find a taxi, but that would be incredibly stupid. So he took the tube to the closest stop. He walked up the stairs, out of the station, and automatically turned left. Possibly because he was left-handed.  _She lives here? Surely she could do a little better on a detective’s salary._ He’d never had occasion to know how much money a detective made, so he couldn’t be certain. Every single street was full of filthy alleys. Finally he found a large lump on the ground in one of the alleys _. Eureka!_ He further checked out the alley, making no sound, as was his wont under such situations.

He approached slowly, seeking lit-up windows. No one seemed to be awake.  _Good._  He made his way slowly and quietly toward the lump. It was Sally, alright.

He bent over her, and saw signs of blunt trauma to the front and back of the head. Too personal to be a random shooting. Jim should have thought of that. Sherlock opened his bag of cocaine and spilled it over Sally’s hand and face. He left the baggie nearby. Totally credible clue to find in an alley. He made sure his gloves were on tightly, then picked up her purse. Sally would have tried to use her badge and firearm. Apparently there was no time. He emptied the contents of the purse on the ground, thought for a moment, and took her gun. He left the badge. No teenager strung out on coke would think of taking a badge. He also left a collection of lipstick, a travel mirror, and many used-up lipsticks and even a pair of underwear. He was humiliated to touch it, but he forced himself. He took the purse and all the contents it needed, put them back in the purse, and threw them in a nearby dumpster, along with the bag he’d determined contained dirty gym clothes. A street light shined on the dumpster, and lit up a bloody rock. No. Jim couldn’t have been that stupid. He removed the rock, wrapped it in a disgusting used bag, sighed, and put it in his pocket, still wearing gloves.

 

He stopped to look at the scene he’d created. Not bad. Her boyfriend might be grief stricken, but not enough to miss the obvious clues Sherlock had left. Satisfied, he walked out the other side of the alley and took a long walk to the Thames. He took Sally’s gun out of his pocket, and flung it so far he had to stop to admire himself. No teenager would ever leave a gun. He stopped and thought, couldn’t find anything wrong. He made his way down to the shore, watching his small hand-held mirror, and saw a package of cigarettes.  _Leave them_ , he told himself, disappointed. He left them on the ground, and took a very circuitous route to Jim’s flat. Standing outside the door, he realised he would certainly be met at the door, and the doorman would recognize him.  _Nothing for it._ He let himself into the door. A different man stood behind the counter.

 

“Can I help you, ma’am?

 

“Thank you but I’m just fine,” he squawked, followed by a cough. “Oh my. Please excuse me. My sister is waiting for me. But thank you anyhow, sir.”

 

“That’s fine, ma’am. Should I ring her flat?”

 

“Oh, please don’t. She’d surely have a heart attack at the sound in the middle of the night.”

 

“Ok, then. You hardly look like a murderer. The lift’s that way. Give her my regards.”

 

Sherlock pressed the wrong number on the elevator. He got off, waited a minute or so, then pressed the top number. No answer. He looked around, saw no one. He quickly used his key to enter Jim’s apartment. He let out a huge breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He snuck back in the closet, undressed, and shoved the women’s garb in a corner. Then, naked, he slipped back into bed with Jim. He was met with irregular snoring. He shoved Jim in the side. Asleep, Jim rolled over and stopped snoring.

 

_This is too much. I wouldn’t mind having cleaned up a crime scene like this for myself, not that I’d ever leave a crime scene in such a compromising condition. He went over the details in his mind, decided he’d done the best he could, and fell into a fitful sleep._

_They both woke late._

“Jim, I’ve cleaned up your mess, so no need to worry about it.”

 

“What mess?” Jim asked, yawning.

 

“You didn’t particularly leave the crime site clean of evidence. I did a sweep for you. You do realise you killed one of Scotland Yard’s finest. A detective, no less. They’ll look for her long and hard till they find her. “Did anyone ring the doorbell?”

 

“I don’t think so. If they did, I slept through it.”

 

“For the best. Next time you give me a non-birthday present, please don’t kill a detective. I’m the prime person of interest.”

 

“Oh. Oopsies.” Sherlock drifted off to sleep, extremely irritated at Jim’s snoring. He dreamed of giant Jims, dressed in women’s clothing and huge lion heads, descending on him like a murder of crows.

         

When he woke, Jim was gone. He’d left a note on Sherlock’s pillow. “Life calls. See you later.”

 

 _This is exactly why I avoid relationships. Oh well. What’s done is done_. He fell back asleep as if he were dead. Which might happen soon, if he hadn’t cleaned up the crime scene well enough.

Sure enough, his phone woke him at 5:30. “Lestrade.”  _That was quick._ “I’ve got bad news. Detective Sally Donovan was found dead early this morning.”

 

“Really? How unfortunate. Please let me go back to sleep.”

 

“No way. Meet us at the crime scene.” Sherlock knew the location quite well, but allowed Lestrade to speak. “Right now? It’s 5:45. Can’t it wait?”

 

“What is the matter with you? Of course it can’t wait. She was one of our own. Get here now.”

 

"Where?"

 

Lestrade gave the address.

 

Sherlock dressed in an old suit he’d left at Moriarty’s ages ago. He must have replaced it with the Jim at IT clothes. He swigged down a disgusting cup of yesterday’s coffee. Then he tiptoed out of the room, leaving Moriarty asleep with Goose.  _“How can he sleep with waterfowl_?” he asked himself for maybe the hundredth time. He scrawled a generic note for Moriarty, which he left next to the coffee maker. Then he headed out toward what he hoped wasn’t trouble.

 

__ ~ __ 

 

Moriarty yawned, put on his robe, and made himself a cup of coffee.  _Sherlock. Can’t he stay in one place for five minutes?_  He felt Goose nipping at his calves. “Alright, Goose. Hang on.” He went back to the bedroom and gave Goose a bowl of goose food and another of fresh water. He collided with Goose, who’d followed him into the bedroom for breakfast. He grunted and took a shower. He put on a good suit, making sure he chose a matching shirt, tie and socks. He wanted to make a good impression. He made sure to leave Goose in the flat.

 

On his way out, his phone buzzed the text sound.

 

**Text:  
**

_Hi Daddy_  
_How R U?_  
NP

**Text:**

_Complicated_  
_U?  
_ _JP_

**Text:**

_My life is always complicated  
_ _Can I see you today?  
__NP_

**Text:**

_Depends. What’s UR mother’s address?  
_ _JP_

Natasha gave the information to Moriarty, who copied it and put the paper in his wallet

 

**Text:**

_Why do U need it?  
_ _NP_

**Text:**

_I can’t very well C U if I don’t know where U R_  
_Also I have to talk to UR mother first  
_ _JP_

**Text:**

_Why? UR my daddy  
_ _NP_

**Text:**

_Complicated_  
_Will UR mother be home now?  
_ _JP_

**Text:**

_She’s always home  
_ _NP_

**Text:  
**

_Go back to whatever you were doing_  
_Talk to you when I’ve figured it out  
_ _Luv U.  
__JP_

**Text:**  
Luv U 2, Daddy  
_NP_

**__~__**

 

 

_Now what? I can’t believe I’m scared to see that bitch. What would have happened to Natalie if I hadn’t seen her in hospital? Well I did see her so shut up. Are you worrying? Sir Dangerous never worries._

 

He took a taxi to Natasha’s address, seeing no need for secrecy. Sure enough, there was a beat-up old car in the driveway.

 

Heart pounding, despite his attempts to slow it down, he rang the doorbell. A tinny, awful muzak version of  _I believe in miracles. Where you from, you sexy thing you._

 

 **_That’s_ ** _not a good sign._

 

Moriarty rang twice, decided that was a reason give up, when a woman in a bathrobe opened the door.

 

“Sorry about that. I was in the bath. How can I help you?”

 

“You don’t know who I am?”

 

“Afraid not. Am I supposed to?”

 

“I’m Natasha’s father.”

 

“Jim?! You look so different.”

 

 _So do you, lady. The past eight years have not been kind to you.. I could do without the frizzy hair and the extra twenty pounds, which would have been nice, had they ever seen exercise in their lives._  Amanda had been seriously underweight when he’d first met her.

“You look exactly the same.” Moriarty gave her a huge smile.

 

“Oh, you. Of course I don’t. Come on in. Feel free to sit in the parlor while I get dressed.” She giggled.

 

Moriarty entered the ‘parlor” and thought  _No way am I sitting on those chairs. I might get ticks. Or bedbugs. Do bedbugs live in chairs?_ He remained standing up, and looked around. He saw a shelf with glass doors, and checked it out.  _Hummel figurines? Oh no. What have I gotten myself into?_ If he hadn’t already seen Natasha and fallen half in love with her, he’d have made a quick exit.

The shelf above the unused fireplace was full of photos. Really full. As in, there was no room for a little 6 x 12 cm photograph. The photos were mostly of Natasha. Not terribly creative. He saw Natasha as a newborn, a toddler, a pre-schooler, a kindergartener, and as a first grade and a second grade little girl. There had apparently been no room for a third grade girl.

 

Moriarty recognized the photos. They were the same as the photos Amanda sent every year on Natasha’s birthday.  _Cute, but in this context, rather nauseating. Who can’t remember what their daughter looks like? The backgrounds were all the same after kindergarten. Are these school pictures? Couldn’t she have taken some of her own?_

 

Amanda came clomping down the stairs in an striped shirt and plaid shorts.

 

_Stripes and plaid. Okaaayyy._

“Pardon my outfit.”

 

_Was I staring?_

“Laundry day.”

 

Moriarty forced himself to smile.

 

“Shall we go into the kitchen for some tea?

 

_Anything to get out of this parlor._

“Sure. Thanks.”

 

Amanda heated some water and poured it into two unmatched mugs, each containing a Lipton tea bag. Moriarty declined to drink.

 

“So, what’s the big occasion?”

 

Moriarty took a deep breath. This woman frightened him more than any of the people he’d killed.

 

“I’d like to see Natasha more often.”

 

Amanda’s face fell. “Oh.”

 

“Is that a problem?”

 

“She hardly knows you.”

 

“True, but we really hit it off when she was in hospital.”

 

“You were there? I didn’t see you.”

 

“I tried to make myself inconspicuous. But, as I said, we got along splendidly.”

 

Amanda studied Moriarty’s face.

 

“Do you have any references?

 

“References? What for?”

 

“I assume you saw the advert for a nanny to take care of Natasha for a couple of months, while I’m in America.”

 

“No, I actually didn’t see an advert. I’m here because I want to see more of my daughter. I haven’t worked as a nanny before, so I’m afraid I don’t have any pertinent references.”

 

“You look responsible enough.”

 

Had Moriarty been drinking the tea, he’d have spit it out with laughter. As it was, he held it in as long as possible till the laughter escaped as a snort.

 

“Is everything okay? Would you like a glass of water?”

 

“No, I’m fine.”

 

“Are you free from the fourteenth for a few months?”

 

“Amanda, today is the thirteenth. The fourteenth is tomorrow. You haven't chosen a nanny yet? You're leaving tomorrow?”

 

“I was going to decide tonight.”

 

“I'd love to take her. But I have a flat mate I’ll have to talk to first.”

 

“No worries. You can stay here.”

 

“Thanks ever so much, but there’s more room at my flat. It’s an entire floor of the building."

 

“I see. You must be rather rich, then.”

 

_Rich enough to send you £100,000 per month, which I don’t see you spending on Natasha._

“I get by.”

 

“Natasha’s still in school for a few months. After they rebuild it, I mean. Can you manage the commute?”

 

“I don’t think that would be a problem.”

 

“Well, honestly, not that many people replied to my advert, and you seem the best of the lot.”

 

“It helps that she’s my  _daughter._  And I love her. And you’re leaving tomorrow, so I don’t see a lot of choice here.”

 

“I don’t know...”

 

They heard a key in the front door and Natasha came skipping in.

 

“Daddy!” She threw herself into his body and he bent down for a huge hug. He lifted her above his head and kissed her belly.

 

“Daddy, stop!” Natasha giggled. “You’ll drop me!”

 

“Not on your life, sweetheart.”

 

“It’s so good to see you again!”

 

Moriarty put her down.

 

“Same here, but I’d rather put you down before my arms go numb.”

 

Natasha giggled again.

 

To be honest, he’d met her two days ago, but he didn’t particularly want Amanda to know that.

“I’d still need the money, of course. Rent, utilities, airplane ticket to Boston. Would that be a problem?”

 

“Not at all.”  _That money was meant for Natasha, bitch._

 

“Well, Natasha, honey, how would you feel about your Daddy taking care of you while Mummy goes to visit Aunt Alice in America?”

 

“Really? I’d love it!”

 

Jim coughed. “I need to clarify one thing. I work at home, and I really couldn’t take care of Natasha here. I was hoping she could come home with me.”

 

“With you. Is yours larger than here?”

 

“Considerably, as I told you. It's a penthouse."

 

“Where?”

 

Moriarty gave a fashionable address in Knightsbridge, though he didn’t live there.

 

“Oh my goodness. How would you feel, Natasha, about staying with your daddy in Knightsbridge? I’ll call you every night.”

 

_I don’t think so._

 

“Oh please, mummy. I really really want to stay with Daddy. And I’ve never seen a penthouse before. Pleeease?”

 

“Okay, then. Why don’t you go upstairs and start packing?”

 

“I’m already packed. I’ve been packed since you first mentioned you were going to America.”

 

“Well, let me follow you upstairs, honey, and make sure you haven’t missed anything important.”

 

“Can Daddy come instead?”

 

“I suppose so. But I’ll need to inspect your suitcase before you leave.”

 

“It’s this way, Daddy.” She climbed a small flight of stairs which led directly to the attic.

 

“This is my room.” Moriarty could barely stand up in it.

 

“Here’s what I packed so far.”

 

Natasha showed Moriarty the contents of her suitcase. Several books, a teddy bear, a sweater, a thin jacket, and some pants and socks. No dresses. No trousers. No skirts.

 

“Um, that looks great, but I think maybe we need some help from your mum.”

 

Natasha pulled a face, but didn’t object.

 

“Mummy!” she shouted. “We need you up here.”

 

Amanda took one look at Natasha’s suitcase, laughed, and said “I can see that.”

 

She efficiently re-packed the suitcase with items Natasha might actually need.

 

“Is there room in your backpack?”

 

Natasha threw the contents on the floor and smiled.

 

“Are those schoolbooks?”

 

“Yes, mummy.”

 

“For your current classes?”

 

“Yes, mummy.”

 

Natasha sighed.

 

“Well, let’s put back what you really need, and we’ll see how much room is left.”

 

When they were done throwing out every piece of paper Natasha had written on that year, except for a plaid file notebook full of homework and tests, the backpack was half full. Amanda efficiently stored Natasha’s laptop, mouse, and power supply in the backpack. There was room for a rolled up coat and sweater. Natasha’s clothing, shoes, and a different sweater were inside the suitcase.

 

“How about a book, honey?” Moriarty asked.

 

“Okay but it’s kind of big.” She took a copy of  _Crime and Punishment_  and jammed it into her suitcase.

 

“Excellent choice,” Moriarty told her. “I have the complete works of Dostoyevsky at home, if you’re interested.”

 

“Really? Wow. This book is kind of borrowed from the library.”

 

“Isn’t that what libraries are for?” Moriarty asked.

 

“Well, it’s a little bit overdue. It’s such a long book and I had a lot of homework and I didn’t get a chance to finish it.”

 

“That’s okay. I can cover the overdue fines.”

 

“Well, it’s actually more than a little bit overdue.”

 

“How much?”

 

“A couple of months?”

 

Moriarty laughed. “In that case, we owe the library a brand new copy.”

 

“The thing is, my allowance is only five pounds a week, and it would take forever to save up that much.”

 

_Five pounds a week? Where the hell did my £100,000 a month go?_

“No worries. I think I can handle it. Just out of curiosity, Amanda, how have you been spending the £100,000 I send each month for Natasha’s care?”

 

“Oh, you know. This and that. Inflation is so terrible these days.”

 

_Right. I don’t think I want to know where the money goes. I’ve got to put it in a trust fund for Natasha._

 

The three of them stood awkwardly, staring at each other.

 

“Why don’t you stay for one last dinner, Natasha honey? I’ll make your favorite.”

 

Amanda turned toward Moriarty.

 

“Do you think you could manage to pick her up here tomorrow? My flight leaves at 10:00.”

 

_Jesus. What was she going to do if I didn’t show up?_

 

“Not a problem. What time do you need to be at school, honey?”

 

“9:30. We get out at 15:30. But I really don't think it will be open yet”

 

“I’m not sure I can make it that early. Would it be ok if a limousine picked her up at my building? I can give you the license plate and registration, if you like.”

 

“I don’t think I’d have time to look them up. It’s okay. I trust you. I’ll call you, Natasha, as soon as I get to America.”

 

“A limousine? A black one? With the driver in front and the people in back?”

 

“Unless you’d like to drive, you got it.”

 

Natasha giggled.

 

“I love you, Daddy. Thanks so much for taking care of me while mummy’s gone.”

 

“My pleasure. Oh. One more thing. Are you allergic to geese?”

 

“I don’t think so. Mummy and I sometimes feed the geese and the ducks at they pond. Why?”

 

“No particular reason. Then I’ll see you at 9:00 tomorrow whether your school is open or not. Or, rather, my limousine will see you.”

 

“Okay. Mummy, thank you. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my whole entire life.”

 

Amanda rolled her eyes at Moriarty. He did not roll back.

 

“Okay, Natasha. Let’s take care of some last-minute items.”

 

“Can’t I go with Daddy now? I’m sure he has last-minute items.”

 

Moriarty tried not to laugh.

 

“No, honey,” Amanda said. “Let’s spend one more night together, mummy and daughter.”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes at Moriarty. This time, he rolled back.

 

“Well, I’d best be going now. Leave you two some time together. Thanks so much, Amanda. And  _you,_ he told Natasha. You behave.”

 

They joined each other for a long, last-minute hug. Moriarty kissed the top of Natasha’s head.

 

“See you tomorrow, Tash.”

 

“Ooh. I love that nickname. You can’t even tell if I’m a boy or a girl. Mummy, can I call myself Tash?”

 

Amanda smiled. “We’ll see.”

 

Moriarty could not stand being in that house one minute longer. He looked at his watch and said “Oopsies. I’m late!”

 

Natasha giggled again.

 

“Toodles, Tash. Till tomorrow.”

 

She gave her Daddy one more hug and he practically ran toward the door. He took a deep breath of fresh air.  _These clothes are going straight to the dry cleaners._

 

He hailed a taxi and wondered how he was going to explain this to Sherlock.


	14. Bubblegum ice cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty takes Amanda to an ice cream shop and discusses the more important aspects of life.

Moriarty was in a panic. He never panicked. He hardly recognized a panic attack. He thought he might have had one but, like Sherlock, he didn’t always hold on to useless information. Having a panic attack made him feel stupid. He hated feeling stupid. He was Sir Dangerous. Sir Dangerous did not do stupid things. And if he did, he fixed them. But not telling his flatmate his daughter was coming to live with them was a pretty bad mistake. So was not telling his daughter that he had a flat mate.

 

He was almost home when he asked the cabbie to turn around and drive back to Natasha’s house. He’d spent the entire taxi ride pushing spinning ideas out of his head, as if he were on a carnival ride. _Stop it! Oh hell, maybe this comes with being a father. If so, I wish I’d never met her._ His stomach dropped to his knees. _No I don’t. I love her. I can’t fall apart every time I make a mistake. This is a new job, being a father. And Sherlock won't mind. Maybe._

_Okay. So you made a mistake. You’ve made mistakes before. You’re smart. You’re the smartest and most devious person in the world. Or you were, before you met Natasha. How do criminals manage to love their kids and kill people on the side? It’s not that hard. Figure it out, honey. Figure it out right now. I mean Really Right Now as the cabbie stopped in front of Natasha’s house._

He rang the dreaded doorbell. What kind of doorbell was that for a kid? He hoped Natasha didn’t know the words to the song. He was afraid he’d never get such a horrible song out of his head. _Why is it so much easier to remember bad songs than good ones?_

 

Natasha answered.

 

“Daddy! I thought I wasn’t going to see you till tomorrow! Mummy! Daddy’s here!”

 

“That’s nice. How many times do I have to tell you not to talk to me when I’m on the phone?”

 

“But it’s Daddy!”

 

“Shut _up_ , Natasha. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

 

The laughter, the pauses, the giggles, made Moriarty believe that “now” had a different meaning for Amanda.

 

“Can we go out for an ice cream?”

 

“Mummy! Daddy’s taking me for ice cream!”

 

“Lovely. Please shut up, Natasha. We’ll talk about this when you get back,” Amanda shouted.

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Sorry, Daddy. She can get that way.”

 

_Don’t I know it._

 

The two left to hail a taxi. When the cabbie asked where they were going, Moriarty was stumped.

 

“Where do you usually go for ice cream?”

 

“We don’t.”

 

“Where do you occasionally go for ice cream?”

 

“I told you, Daddy. I don’t know.” Her voice was on the verge of tears. Moriarty gave her a hug and said, “It’s okay, Tash. We can always go somewhere else.”

 

“There’s an ice cream shop just around the corner,” the cabbie said. “Which I’d assume you’d know, being her father and all.”

 

“Well, honey, I don’t.”

 

The cabbie stopped in front of an ice cream shop. Moriarty gave him a ridiculous tip, just in case.

 

“Thank you, sir!”

 

“Don’t mention it.” _Literally._

 

The two exited the taxi to find the grungiest ice cream shop Jim had ever seen. Oh well.

 

“So what do you want?”

 

“A strawberry cone?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“One strawberry cone coming up.”

 

The shop wasn’t busy and the cone seemed to appear out of nowhere.

 

“Aren’t you going to get any, Daddy?”

 

“Think I’ll skip it. I had a big dinner.”

 

“You didn’t have dinner at all. You came back right after you left.”

 

“Well, I’m saving room for dinner.”

 

Natasha laughed.

 

Jim sat in a table by the window, which was also under the air conditioner, which absorbed sound. Unfortunately, the table was covered with congealed ice cream, which stained the elbows of Moriarty’s jacket.

 

“It’s cold here. Can’t we move?”

 

“No. Here, take my jacket.”

 

Natasha looked adorable in a huge suit jacket. Moriarty thought about dry-cleaning bills.

 

He stared at Natasha.

 

“Now listen up, honey. This is very important. I did a bad thing. You know we're not to lie to each other about anything?”

 

Natasha looked scared.

 

“Don’t worry, kiddo. It’s my mistake, not yours. I sort of forgot to tell you something."

 

"What?" Natasha sounded scared.

 

“Here’s the thing, Tash. I’d just met you and I really liked you straight off the bat. I wanted to make sure you would like me. So I kind of didn't tell you I had a flatmate.”

 

"Is he nice? Does he like kids?"

 

"Of course." Moriarty lied.

 

"Does he bite the heads off chickens onstage?”

 

“Where the hell did you hear that?”

 

“My mummy loves Ozzie Osbourne. Every single time we listen she tells me how he used to bite the heads off chickens onstage. I’d rather he bit off 100 chicken heads than have mummy keep talking about it all the time.”

 

“Not to worry, dearest. I’m sure he never bit a head off a chicken in his life."  _Probably._

 

"What's his job?"

 

"Why don't we let him tell you all about it."

 

“So what’s your job?”

 

Moriarty leaned over and whispered, as if he were telling his daughter the nuclear code. “It’s embarrassing, you know.”

 

“I don’t care. You could clean up chicken poop and I wouldn’t care. I just want to know.”

 

“Okay. I work at the most boring job ever.”

 

“You’re a janitor?

 

Moriarty laughed. “No, sweetie, I work with money. I move people’s money around for them and try to make as much as possible.”

 

“Oh. That _is_ boring.”

 

“You still want to come live with me?” Moriarty scraped some ice cream off his shoe. It didn’t come off. What the?”

 

“It’s bubble gum ice cream. It won’t come off.”

 

“Who the hell orders bubble gum ice cream? You can choke on that. Have you tried it?”

 

“Once. It was disgusting.”

 

“Okay. Now you know what my job is, and that I have a flat mate, and I know you hate bubblegum ice cream. A decision with which I wholeheartedly agree. You still want to live with me?"

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Of course, Daddy. What happens if I try some bubble gum ice cream sometime?”

 

“I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

 

“Eww. What happens if I tell someone your job?”

 

“Don’t. Please keep it secret. I’m really embarrassed about the whole thing. Maybe I should have made up something more exciting to tell you.”

 

“Don’t worry, Daddy. People make mistakes. And if they're not really bad, sometimes you don't get punished.”

 

“Where did you hear that?”

 

“Mummy.”

 

‘Well, mummies aside, I’ll never tell about bubble gum ice cream and I'll never punished you for making a mistake. Want me to yell out right now that you’ve had bubble gum ice cream?”

 

“No!” Natasha said, starting to giggle.

 

“Ok. Think of my job as bubble gum ice cream for grown-ups. You want to tell anyone?”

 

“No!” Natasha began laughing. “You’re so silly, Daddy. I love you.”

 

“I love you too. So you’re going to be all set for the limo to school tomorrow morning?”

 

“About that. Do I have to? I really don't think school will be open."

 

Moriarty smacked his head. “Whoopsies. I forgot. But you have to go to school as soon as it re-opens. You don’t have to take the limo. I can drive you myself if you want.”

 

Natasha played with her napkin, trying to suck out the rest of the ice cream without breaking the cone.

 

“Actually, Daddy, I’d sort of rather take the school bus. I know lots of kids there and it’s fun and I’m sort of embarrassed about being dropped off.”

 

“Okay. We’ll just have to remember to tell the school you’ve moved.”

 

“I forgot! All this serious conversation made me forget! I’m gonna live with you, Daddy!” she shouted. “You and your flat mate! I can’t wait.”

 

Moriarty took a surreptitious look around the shop. No one seemed to have heard. _It’s so goddamn hard keeping everyone I know safe._

“Okay then. We’re all set. No more bubble gum ice cream, and no more punishments for making mistakes. Deal?” he said, offering his hand.

 

“Deal.” Natasha took his hand. Of course Moriarty had ice cream all over his hand now. He wiped it off with about seven tiny napkins from a dispenser on the table. It was a poorly made dispenser. Moriarty got ice cream everywhere.

 

“So, you want to walk home?”

 

“Yeah. The night is cool. I love the night.”

 

_It really was cool out. Moriarty was freezing without his jacket._

 

“Me too. So I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Mummy's leaving really early. Can you come by seven?”

 

“Sure. I'll tell the limousine driver as soon as I get home. Help me remember? Oh, right. You can't.”

 

“You worry too much, Daddy,” Natasha grinned.

 

“I guess I do. It takes a while to get used to being an actual daddy."

 

"Worrying is a waste of time."

 

"Who told you that?"

 

"Mummy."

 

“Smart mummy.”

 

“Smart daddy, too.”

 

“And smart kid. Let me take you home now. Your mum must be worried about you.”

 

Natalie snorted. “Not likely.” She opened the front door and heard her mum, still on the phone. She rolled her eyes at Moriarty. He rolled back, feeling the onset of a really bad headache.

 

“I’ll wait with you with you till your mum answers.”

 

“It’s okay. I let myself in all the time.”

 

“Not at my place. I’ll give you a key, but you have to ring first and then wait a minute or two till I come open the door.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Sweetie pie, love of my life, you ask too many questions. You’re giving me a headache.”

 

“I’m sorry. Can I still come and live with you?”

 

“Of course. Don’t worry about it.”

 

Amanda finally hung up and greeted them in the hall. “Hello, strawberry face. Is everything okay?” she asked Moriarty.

 

“Peachy. Nash wants to take the schoolbus, that's all."

 

"They don't know where you live."

 

God this woman is thick. “Sir Dangerous always has contingency plans. I’ll call the school and give them her new address.”

 

“Sir Dangerous?!” Natalie squealed. “Does that make me Princess Dangerous?”

 

“You bet. It’s you and me against the world, kid.”

 

“It’s getting near Natasha’s bedtime.”

 

“Oh. Right. See you tomorrow, Tashios.”

 

“Hey. That makes me sound like a box of cereal.”

 

“That’s the point.”

 

“Can Daddy read me a bedtime story, mummy?”

 

“Not tonight. It’s late. You’ll have plenty of time for that soon.”

 

“Oh. Alright.” She hugged one of Moriarty’s legs. “G’night, Daddy.”

 

“G’night, bubble gum killer queen.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Nothing. Love you.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“Can I have my jacket back? Or do you want to sleep in it?”

 

Natasha laughed and give him the jacket. “I do have pajamas, you know.”

 

“Great! So do I!”

 

“Really? I didn’t know grown ups had pajamas.”

 

_I really don’t want to think about that._

 

When the door shut behind him, Moriarty let out a huge sigh of relief. _One done, one to go.”_ He had a feeling that telling Sherlock would be a lot harder.

 


	15. Flatmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty and Sherlock discuss eight-year-old flatmates.

Moriarty had worked himself into a dither about Sherlock. He despised being in a dither. He even hated the word “dither.” It reminded him of something Mrs. Hudson would say. He tried to think of a more appropriate synonym. He worked himself into a perturbation? A turmoil? A lather? _Wait. Isn’t there an old Jefferson, Jefferson some kind of flying machine, song about lather? I’m not about to compare myself to a defunct rock group where all the members are older than I, or dead._ _A stew? That’s just plain ridiculous. I am not an ingredient in a stew._

 

Still, it was with slightly trembling hands that he let himself into his flat. His **_own_** flat. What was the matter with him? He lived here. He controlled who else lived here. He was Sir Dangerous the Landlord. He was also afraid of waking up his flatmate so early.

 

The minute he closed the door behind him, a totally naked Sherlock asked “What’s a five letter word for being in a state of befuddlement? Two vowels, both the same.”

 

“Dwaal.”

 

“Yes. You should know. You’re always in a state of dwaal lately.”

 

Moriarty moved toward his own armchair, which, for some reason, Sherlock was not using. Perhaps because Goose was sitting in it, giving Moriarty a reproachful look for having left her all alone.

 

“Hi Goose.” Moriarty patted her head. She nipped him gently and leaned into his arm. He snuggled in next to her. He wondered how many times Sherlock had sat on his furniture naked.

 

“Sherlock. I have to talk with you.”

 

“Six letters. Summer breeze.”

 

“Zephyr. I need to talk you. Now. It’s important.”

 

“God these crossword puzzles are stupid. I knew those words. I was just testing you.”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“Did you know that—“

 

“I don’t care. I need to talk to you. Now.”

  
  
“Leave me alone. I’m obviously busy.”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

No answer.

 

“ **SHERLOCK! _”_**

 

“A seven letter word for-”

 

Moriarty got up and ripped the newspaper from Sherlock’s hands.

 

“What the bloody hell did you do that for?

  
  
“I need to talk to you.”

 

“I can multitask.”

 

“Apparently you were not.”

 

Sherlock picked up the newspaper. “It’s all wrinkled now. Seriously, Jim.”

 

“ ** _SERIOUSLY, SHERLOCK. I NEED TO TALK TO YOU!"_**

 

“A seven letter word for-“

 

Moriarty got up, went to the kitchen, filled a pot with cold water, and dumped it on Sherlock’s head.

 

_Idiot. Now I’m going to have to reupholster that chair and call the carpet cleaners._

 

“Why the bloody hell did you do that?”

 

“I need to talk to you. I need you to listen.”

 

“One moment, please. Give a man his privacy.”

 

Sherlock reappeared in his dressing gown.

 

 _My_ dressing gown.

 

“It had better be earth-shattering, Jim, or I’ll strangle you with my belt."

 

_My belt._

 

“I’m waiting,”

 

“My daughter Natasha is coming to stay with us.”

 

“For how long?”

 

“Several months. Maybe longer.”

 

“And you did this without asking me?”

 

“You weren’t there!”

 

“A phone call would have sufficed.”

 

“Right. Oh, before I agree to take care of my daughter, let me just call my flatmate.”

 

“I don’t remember that call.”

 

“That’s because **I DIDN’T** **MAKE IT!** ”

 

“You could have given me some notice.”

 

“I found out last night. You were sleeping. This is your notice.”

 

“Do you have more than one daughter?”

 

“Christ, Sherlock, I barely knew I had one. Are you listening to me? She’s moving in here. Natasha. My daughter. We’re going to have a flatmate. You met her in hospital. After the fire.”

 

“And what do you want from me?”

 

“A reaction, maybe?”

 

“I’m too dwalled to react.”

 

**_“SHERLOCK! PAY ATTENTION OR I’LL WRING YOUR BLOODY NECK. MY EIGHT-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER IS COMING TO LIVE WITH ME. TODAY!!!”_ **

 

“You seem to have your mind set already, so what good would my reaction do?”

 

“I care about you. You’ve been practically living here. You’re my friend. My damn lover. Need any more reasons?”

 

“Is she good at crosswords?”

 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. I don’t know. I imagine she is, because she’s a genius.”

 

“Does she like the violin?”

 

“How the hell should I know? I didn’t ask her. She’s a guest. If she doesn’t like violin, tough on her. You were here first. You have first rights.”

 

“Does she mind if I drift into thought and don’t speak all day?”

 

Sherlock put his feet up on the ottoman and tried to look relaxed.

 

“I don’t know, Sherlock, but I’d certainly love it.”

 

“Why is she staying here?”

 

“Her mum’s off to America.”

 

“And what plans did she make for Natasha before last night?”

 

“None. She’s an idiot. If I hadn’t shown up, she’d probably have left Natasha alone.”

 

Sherlock took his feet off the ottoman. He noticed the carpet was wet.

 

“Sounds like she comes from good, responsible stock.”

 

“Watch it. I’m her father.”

 

“As I said...”

 

“You’re driving me insane. I don’t know why I bother to ask, but would you mind if she stay here?””

 

“Not at all. It would be interesting to see the world through her perspective.”

 

“Then why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

 

“I needed to think.”

 

“Damn you to hell. We all need to think. Did you think you were the only one?”

 

“Judging by my flatmate, yes.”

 

“Fuck you.” Moriarty took off his shoe and threw it at the wall, a few feet from Sherlock’s head.

 

“Lucky for me you have bad aim.”

 

“You know damn well I wasn’t aiming at you. Want me to aim at you? Here.”

 

Moriarty threw a cushion at Sherlock, which hit him square between the eyes.

 

“Thanks,” Sherlock replied, arranging the pillow behind his neck. “I needed that.”

 

“Why the hell do I put up with you? I should just replace you with my daughter.”

 

“I believe that would be incest.”

 

“Dammit, Sherlock. Can you stop that for even one moment?”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“Stop being Sherlock.”

 

“No. I cannot. But I can permanently remove myself from your presence.”

 

Moriarty put his head in his hands.

 

“Idiot. I don’t want you to leave. I love you, insane as I may be.”

 

“Ditto. But I’m not insane.”

 

“You’d have to give up your bedroom. Which you never use anyhow.”

 

“Point made and taken. I couldn’t care less about my bedroom. I did not gradually move into your flat so that I could have an extra bedroom.”

 

“Please be serious for once. She’ll be here in—“

 

“Approximately seven hours. Depending on the route and speed of the school bus.”

 

Moriarty held his head in his hands. "There's no school, today, idiot. It burned down yesterday, or have you forgotten? Bloody hell! I'm supposed to pick her up at 9:00!"

 

“Oh don’t be a drama queen.”

 

“I _am_ a drama queen. Deal with it or get out.”

 

“That reminds me. When I was looking for a disguise to clean up the mess you left yesterday, I ran across some interesting undergarments in your dresser drawer.”

 

This did nothing to convince Moriarty to remove his head from his hands. It merely made the visible part of his face turn pink.

 

“Can we talk about this later? One crisis at a time?”

 

“Wearing women’s clothing isn’t a crisis. It’s more common than you’d think. Plenty of straight men take pleasure in doing so. I assume that gay men feel the same.”

 

“But it’s bloody embarrassing,” Moriarty mumbled.

 

“Pardon? I didn’t hear you. You were mumbling.”

 

“I said it’s embarrassing that you know that I occasionally, very occasionally, enjoy wearing women’s pants.”

 

Moriarty was near tears. Talk about humiliating.

 

“And the dresses and shoes and bras in your closet?”

 

“What were you doing looking through my closet?”

 

“I told you. I was trying to find a decent disguise.”

 

“There you have it. It’s no more polite to look through my disguise wardrobe than it is to look through my underwear drawer.”

 

“I was trying to find your _sock_. Your sock where you stash cocaine. I needed some to scatter near Donovan. Why? Did I mishear you? Did you say to look through your _frock_ drawer for the cocaine?”

 

“ _STOP IT. FOR THE SAKE OF ALL THAT’S DECENT IN THIS WORLD. FOR THE SAKE OF ALL THAT’S INDECENT._ ** _FOR THE SAKE OF MY SANITY._** **DROP IT!”**

 

“Alright. Though I was merely reciting facts.”

 

“Please, Sherlock, I mean it. If you can’t treat me with at least a modicum of respect, get the hell out of my flat.”

 

“In your Sherlock robe?”

 

“Did you try that on before you bought it?”

 

“Possibly.”

 

“Then take it with you and get out of my flat.”

 

“Really? Is that what you really want me to do, Jim?”

 

_No. I want a hug and a kiss and for mummy to make it all better._

“Jim?”

 

“I want you to do whatever you please. But if you stay in my flat, you have to treat me better than a rebellious two-year-old.”

 

Moriarty’s head was now practically buried between his knees.

 

Sherlock took advantage of the element of surprise. He stood up, walked over to Moriarty’s chair, and kissed whatever parts of the man he could reach. The top of his head. His forehead. His hands. Moriarty looked up, and Sherlock kissed his lips, hard. Then inserted his tongue. Moriarty kissed him back. He stood up, and Sherlock held him in a bear grasp. Clumsily, they made it to the bedroom, where Sherlock removed Moriarty’s clothes and pushed him onto the bed. They kissed, teased, toyed, until Moriarty could barely stand it anymore. He pushed Sherlock’s mouth away for a second.

 

“You’re going to make me come in about two seconds flat.”

 

“Excellent.” Sherlock proceeded to do just that.

 

“I love you, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, after he’d gotten his breath back. "I also hate you."

 

“I hate you too. As you well know. I also love you. As you also know.”

 

“Just don’t expect the same from me. Not right now.”

 

“I don’t. Your body needs time to recover.”

 

“Just fucking hold me.”

 

Sherlock did. They drifted off to sleep.

 

“Bloody hell!” Moriarty sat up and looked at his phone. It’s eight o’clock! I have to pick up Natasha in less than an hour. Get up, Sherlock.”

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Hello?”

 

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, clean, fresh, and impeccably dressed.

 

“You called?”

 

“What? Your internal clock works when you’re asleep, too?

 

“Of course. That’s half its purpose. Take a shower, Jim. You stink of sex.”

 

Moriarty took the fastest shower he could, dried off, and got dressed. In a suit. With men’s pants underneath. He searched through his underwear drawer, pushing certain items to the back, and found purple socks he hoped Natasha woud like. He then held up two ties.

 

“Lavender or plum?”

 

“Lavender. I always choose lavender. Why do you bother asking anymore?”

 

Moriarty put on the lavender tie and studied himself in the full-length mirror. _Not bad._

 

“Honk! Honk! HONK!”

 

“Oh dear. I forgot all about Goose.”

 

He opened the bedroom door and an extremely annoyed Goose honked straight at his face.

 

“I’m sorry, love.” Moriarty scratched the feathers at the back of her neck, which she adored. She made a sound the equivalent of a goose purr. Moriarty freshened her water and filled her empty bowl with goose food. He suddenly lacked all importance in Goose’s life as she devoured her food.

 

“I suggest you take better care of your daughter. She might not be so tolerant about missing a meal or getting shut out of her room.”

 

“Her room. Right. We should really clean that up for her.”

 

“It’s 8:10. I suggest we do that later.”

 

"Oh shit. I told her a limo would pick her up at nine. Can you call Mycroft and arrange it?"

 

"If you tell me where she lives." Moriarty told him.

 

Sherlock reappeared in five minutes. "Done."

 

"Have you made sure your room is clean?"

 

"Of course it's clean. I never allow Goose inside."

 

“Can you at least give a quick glance for soiled socks or pants?”

 

“Jim, I’m sure Natasha knows I wear socks and pants. Relax. She’s your daughter, not the Queen. You’re the Queen.”

 

“Oh shut up. Just close the door and we’ll deal with it later."

 

"Um, Sherlock darling, Sherlock honey, light of my life, I need to tell you something.”

 

“Please don’t tell me she has a twin.”

 

“She doesn’t have a twin. I’m, um, erm, oh, the hell with it. I’m afraid.”

 

“Of your daughter?”

 

"What if she doesn't like it here? What if I'm a terrible father? What if I have a sudden urge to kill her in her sleep?”

 

The doorbell rang. Moriarty ran to answer it, followed by a more sedate Sherlock and Goose. _This is probably the most humiliating position I’ve ever been in during my entire life. I’m afraid of my own daughter._

He opened the door.

 


	16. Another Flatmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha arrives.
> 
> Sherlock is less than thrilled.

Natasha rang the dreaded doorbell because Moriarty hadn’t given her a key yet. She was sweaty with the effort of carrying her backpack, a huge wheeled suitcase, and her current book.

 

Moriarty opened the door. Natasha immediately dropped all her bags on the floor.

  

“Tash! What are you doing with all those heavy bags?”

 

Natasha looked scared. “I thought I was staying with you?”

 

“Of course you are. But someone at the desk in the lobby could have carried them for you.”

 

“Oh. I wasn’t sure what that room was for so I didn’t talk to anyone. Are lobbies always that pretty? With shiny floors and chandeliers? I’ve only seen those in movies. I didn’t know they were real. Do you live in a palace?”

 

“Not a palace, a penthouse.”

 

“What’s a penthouse??”

 

“A flat palace with a view.”

 

“Oh, and there’s your goose! Can I pat it?”

 

“I think so. She’s never bitten anyone before.”

 

“What’s her name?”

 

“Goose, silly goose.”

 

“Um, is her name G _oose_  or G _oose Silly Goose?_ ”

 

“Just Goose. Capital G.” Moriarty grinned.  _What is wrong with me? I’m melting! And your little goose, too. Are all parents this stupid about their kids?_

 

“Hi Goose.” She approached the bird slowly, muttering soothing sounds as she did so. “Can I touch you, Goose?” Goose didn’t answer. She did, however, stretch her neck out to sniff Natasha. Tash looked at her father questioningly.

                       

“It’s okay. Go around behind her so you don’t scare her and pat the back of her neck.”

 

Tash did. Goose started to make her goose purr sound.

 

“Does that mean she likes me?” Natasha asked.

 

“I’d think so. She knows a good thing when she sees one.”

 

“Can I feed her?

  
  
“No. She could easily nip your hand by accident.”

 

“Oh.” Natasha sounded very disappointed.

 

“Hey, kiddo. Next time I feed her, you can pour the food in her bowl.”

 

“Okay.” Natasha still sounded very disappointed.

 

“Come take a look at the view with me.”

 

They both looked out over London and the Thames.

 

“Wow. You can see everything from here.”

 

“Not everything. Just what you can see outside my window. You can’t see Ireland or New York.”

 

“You’re so silly. But just a little scary, too.”

 

“Sorry we can’t go to “Dads ‘R’ Us. They closed. You’re stuck with me.” Moriarty looked in the direction of his bedroom and the smaller bedroom behind it. Of course he couldn’t see anything, but he looked anyhow.

 

“You have a flatmate, right?”

 

“Yes, I do. I’m not sure where he is. He’s a little bit eccentric. Sherlock? Tash is here. Sherlock?”

 

“I guess he’s out. You can meet him later.”

 

“Who’s that strange lady sitting in your arm chair?”

 

“What?!”

 

“Right behind you. She’s staring at you. She looks crazy. Like the Wicked Witch of the West. She’s really scary.”

 

Moriarty turned to see Sherlock. He was wearing Moriarty’s disguise clothes. He’d done a really good job of it. Black skirt, black top, black lace stockings and Wicked Witch of the West shoes. He’d done something to one of Moriarty’s wigs to pull it back off his face and tie it in a bun. All that was missing was the hat.

 

“That’s just the old lady who haunts the penthouse. Don’t let her bother you.”

 

“She does bother me. Is she always here? She’s creepy. I don’t want to live in a haunted house. I thought they were all old and falling apart. Your flat is too nice to be haunted. I hate your ghost.”

 

“She’s hardly ever here. And she’s not really a ghost. She’s a man who likes disguises.” Moriarty gave Sherlock a withering glance. Sherlock ignored him.

 

“Hello, dearie. Jim’s told me all about you. He said you’ve been naughty. You spilled strawberry ice cream all over your Daddy.”

 

“That was an accident. I wasn’t being bad on purpose.”

 

“If you say so, dearie.” Sherlock cackled. “Come. I’ll show you your new bedroom.”

 

“Not by yourself, You won’t. I’m coming too. And cut it out. Sherlock. Can’t you see you’re terrifying her?”

 

Sherlock picked up Natasha’s bags and led her to the bedroom. Moriarty followed on his heels. The room was small and much darker than the rest of the house. Moriarty opened the blinds. Better. The room featured a double bed covered with a pink duvet. Moriarty had sneaked in some shopping time, which for him meant he’d gone online and paid for overnight delivery.

 

On the bed sat the huge white stuffed swan. Moriarty had to admit that he was impressed that Sherlock had managed to clean the room so quickly.  _When did he do that? Last night?_  The bed was made, a pitcher of water and a glass were set on the bedside table, and nothing belonging to Sherlock could be seen. Not even in the closet, which Moriarty opened to show Natasha.

 

“Thanks for cleaning up, Sherlock.”

 

“No problem. We wouldn’t want your daughter to sleep in a dirty room, would we?“

 

He glared at Moriarty. Moriarty glared back.

 

“Is pink okay, honey?” he asked his daughter. “I can get you another color if you like.”

 

“No, pink is nice. I have a pink blanket at home. It feels familiar. And your carpet is so soft. What’s it made of?”

 

“Carpet stuff, I guess. I didn’t ask.”

 

Most of Moriarty’s flat had shining hardwood floors. He’d installed plush cream carpet where he didn’t want the floor to get scratched. This included Natasha’s room, the main guest room. He had another guest room, but he didn’t want to overwhelm his daughter.

 

“Clean sheets, clean towels, empty closet.” Sherlock looked at Moriarty He'd cut out the cackling and spoke in his normal voice. Now he sounded really strange, speaking in a man’s voice dressed up as the Wicked Witch of the West. “I hope it’s to your liking, Natasha.”

 

“Um, yes. Thank you. It’s very nice.” Natasha had picked up the stuffed swan and was holding it close. “Why didn’t you tell me you lived with an old woman? Is she really a ghost? I’m kind of scared, Daddy.”

 

“No need to be afraid of me. I’m just your dad’s flatmate. A living flatmate. Not a ghost. Currently, a man dressed in a ridiculous female disguise. Would you like some milk and biscuits? I’ve set them up in the kitchen.”

 

“Uh, okay. Are you coming, Daddy?”

 

“Of course. I wouldn’t leave my daughter alone with milk and biscuits. They can be dangerous.”

 

Natasha started to snivel.

 

“Oh honey, I was kidding. Nothing’s dangerous here. I checked last night.”

 

He gave Sherlock a seriously nasty look over his shoulder.

 

“Auntie Em, I think you should change into something a little less frightening. And more gender appropriate. We’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

 

“That was my flatmate, Sherlock. He’s a bit weird but harmless.”

 

Natasha kept a death grip on the swan while Moriarty led her to the kitchen. Sherlock had been true to his word. A neatly set up pitcher of milk and a plate of biscuits sat on the table. Along with a vase of black roses. The black marble countertop was shining clean, as was the matching table.

 

“Look, Tash. Sherlock’s cleaned up for us.”

 

“Why are the roses black, Daddy? Your ghost really scares me.”

 

“I don’t know why the roses are black and believe me. I don’t have a ghost. I have a flatmate. Who is annoying the hell out of me right now. Don’t worry, Tash. He’s not really a ghost. I think he just wanted to make an interesting first impression. He knows absolutely nothing about children. Remember what I told you about first impressions? Well, they’re not always right. Give him a chance. Have a biscuit.”

 

“I’m not hungry. I don’t want to live in a haunted house, Daddy. Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“The house isn’t haunted, Tash. I didn’t think Sherlock would dress up as a ghost. That was mean of him. He's not a ghost. He's a living person. I’ll talk to him about it. Want some milk?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Moriarty poured them each a glass. They sipped their milk together. Moriarty spit his out on the table. “Don’t drink any, Tash! It’s gone bad.” He was too late. She’d already had a large swallow, and immediately spat it up on the table.

 

“Why would the ghost give us rotten milk, Daddy? Is all your food rotten? I’m scared. I don’t think I want to live here.”

 

“Tash, it’s okay. There  **is**  no ghost. Only my flatmate, Sherlock. Any milk can spoil, you know. It happens very quickly.”

 

Natasha gave him a look that showed she clearly didn’t believe him.

 

Moriarty nibbled a bit of the biscuit. It tasted fine.

 

“Have some biscuits. They’re good.”

 

“Oh look! Goose followed us. Does she always do that?”

 

“Pretty much, but just with me. She won’t follow you if you’re alone.”

 

“Are you going to leave me alone a lot?” Natasha’s voice was quivering.

 

“No, not at all. Not if you don’t want me to. I’m here almost all the time,” he lied.

 

Sherlock entered the kitchen, dressed in his customary clothing.

 

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said in his own voice and clothing. “I thought a child would think it was funny. I was just dressed up in a disguise. I have lots of them. I’ll show you sometime.”

 

“No thanks. I don’t like disguises.”

 

Moriarty gave Sherlock a death glare.

 

“We really truly don’t have a ghost. It was just my flatmate trying to be funny. He missed. By a lot.” He continued to glare at Sherlock.

 

“Daddy, can we go somewhere private? I want to talk to you alone.”

 

Moriarty took Tash’s hand and led her to the library, on the other side of the flat. Of course Goose followed. All the books made the room feel dark and ominous. Moriarty turned on a light. That helped a little. Though the green glow wasn’t ideal.

 

“Daddy, I really don’t like your flat mate. Even in normal clothes. Is he always so scary?”

 

“No. I’ve never seen him like that before. Usually he’s boring. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I’m so sorry he scared you. I’ll tell him not to do that anymore.”

 

Natasha clung to her swan plushie.

 

“Can you ask him to leave? Can it just be you and me here?”

 

“I don’t know, Tash. It’s complicated. One thing you can count on. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

 

“I wouldn’t take your father’s promises too seriously, Natasha. He tends to lie.” Sherlock sat down and leafed through a book.

 

“Sherlock! When did you get here? This was supposed to be a private talk.”

 

“Daddy doesn’t lie to me,” Natasha said to Sherlock.

 

“Are you sure? What did he tell you he does for a living?”

 

“He said he washed money.”

 

Sherlock laughed.

 

“You mean he laundered money.”

 

“I don’t know. My mum washes clothes in the laundry machine. I don’t think she washes her money.”

 

Sherlock chuckled.

 

“And did he tell his job was secret?”

 

Natasha was almost crying now. Moriarty bent down to hold her.

 

“Yes, but he said it was 'cause he was embarrassed to work at a job that was really boring. I don't think he was lying. It sounds really boring.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Shut up, Sherlock.” Moriarty glared at Sherlock hard enough to burn his eyes.

 

“Hey Tash,” Moriarty said. Do you like telly?

 

“I guess so.”

 

“Tell you what. I have the hugest telly you’ve ever seen. Want to come look?”

 

He almost pulled Natasha out of the library and walked her to the couch. Goose jumped up next to her.

 

“Look! She likes me!”

 

“Goose has good taste. Anything you’d like to watch?”

 

“Not really. The after school shows are boring and it’s getting late and I’m tired even though it’s not even night yet.”

 

“What if I said you could watch anything you liked?”

 

“How?”

 

“Cause my telly’s special. Is there a movie you really like?”

 

“I like  _Labyrinth_.”

 

“Good choice.” Moriarty turned on the TV, did a quick search for  _Labyrinth_ , and found it almost immediately.

 

“It says you have to pay money to watch. Mummy would never let me do that.”

 

“Well I don’t mind. Don’t push that button. Here, let me show you.” He clicked to the page with the rental options, and clicked the price for HD.

 

“Ok now. You’re all set. But don’t be scared. David Bowie is going to look as big as you.”

 

The movie started.

 

“Neat. I wish my mum had one of these.”

 

“So are you going to be okay watching this with Swan and Goose for a little while? I want to have a talk with my flatmate.”

 

“No! Stay with me, Daddy. Please stay with me. I’m scared of your flatmate.”

 

“Don’t be. He likes to play scary games but that’s all. I think he was trying to be amusing. I’ll make him promise not to do it anymore.”

 

“You’re leaving?” Natasha was running her fingers back and forth on the dark cream covered velvet couch, making little patterns.

 

“I have to talk to Sherlock. We’ll be in the library. Don’t worry. I just want to tell him to stop playing mean games with you.”

 

__~__ 

 

“Sherlock,” Moriarty said, in a rather frightening voice.

 

No answer.

 

Moriarty closed the library door behind him.

 

“What the bloody hell was that all about? You terrified her. Why would you do that?”

 

“Why would you bring your daughter to live here and give me, oh, four hours notice? Did it occur to you that I might not want another flatmate? Especially an eight-year-old girl?”

 

“You should have brought it up with me. Not scared her half to death.”

 

“When? When we were arguing about your choice in pants? While we were having sex? You really didn’t give me much time, Jim.”

 

“Still. You should have talked to me, not frightened my daughter.”

 

“Whatever happened to Sir Dangerous? All I see now is Sir Jello. You planning on stopping killing?”

 

“No. Of course not. I'm not changing my entire life because I have a daughter. But I can tell you one thing. I’m not going to frighten her. As for Detective Donovan, everyone makes mistakes.”

 

“Not mistakes that could very well lead Lestrade right to our door.”

 

“My door.”

 

"You kill people?" Natasha sounded terrified.

  

“Bloody hell, Tash! How long have you been standing there eavesdropping? It’s not polite to eavesdrop. There was a reason I wanted to talk with Sherlock privately.”

 

“I was scared, Daddy. You were so loud. And you kill people? I don’t want to live with you if you kill people. What if you kill me?”

 

Moriarty looked at Sherlock as if looks really could kill.

 

“Why on earth would I want to kill you, Tash?”

 

“I don’t know.” Natasha was full out crying now. “Why do you want to kill anyone? It’s wrong.”

 

Moriarty sighed.

 

“Tell me this. Do you like hamburgers?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you know where hamburgers come from?”

 

“Cows, I think.”

 

“Are the cows alive when you eat them?”

 

“No! Gross.”

 

“So what do you think happened to the cow between being alive and your eating it in a hamburger?”

 

“That’s different. Animals aren’t the same as people.”

 

“Oh. So it wouldn’t bother you if I were to wring Goose’s neck and kill her and cook her for dinner?”

 

“No. I mean yes. She’s a pet. She’s sweet. I like her.”

 

“So you think it’s ok to kill a goose but not a pet goose. It’s ok to kill a wild goose but not a human. That’s how you see it?”

 

“Yes. I mean no. I don’t know. Why are you being so mean to me, Daddy? You were never mean before.”

 

“Because I don’t want you to judge me for killing people.”

 

“But you said  you put money in the washing machine. I want to go back home.”

 

“You’re mum’s in America. You can’t go back home.” Moriarty collapsed in one of the soft armchairs. "Come here, Tash. Sit next to me.”

 

“I’m scared.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Tash. I’m not going to kill you. That’s not how it works. Come. Sit with me.”

 

Natasha sat on the arm of the chair, still holding her swan.

 

“I only kill bad guys. The police kill bad guys. It’s the same principle. Are you afraid of the police? Do you think they should let bad guys live? What about soldiers? Do you think they should let the bad guys win wars?”

 

Moriarty brushed his daughter’s hair with his fingers. Natasha froze.

 

“I love you, Tash. I don’t kill people I love.”

 

Natasha got up from the chair.

 

“But what if you stopped loving me?”

 

“Has your mum ever stopped loving you? She can be a proper bitch sometimes, but does she stop loving you?”

 

“No,” Natasha said in a tiny voice.

 

“So why would your daddy stop loving you? What did I do when I found out your mum was going to America and her plans for you fell through?”

 

“You took me for ice cream.”

 

“Yes. I did. What else did I do? Did I leave you there and not care what happened to you when your mom was gone?”

 

“No.”

 

“Did I love you and take care of you and take you home with me?”

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“You went home. The limousine took me here.”

 

Moriarty laughed.

 

“Did I kill the limousine?”

 

Natasha giggled quietly. “No. You can’t kill a limousine.”

 

“Did I kill your mum?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“Well guess what. I don’t even like your mum. She didn’t plan ahead very well for someone to take care of you while she was in America. She put up an advert for strangers to take of you, and when no one came, did I kill your mum then?”

 

“No. I guess not.”

 

“You guess not. What, did I kill half of her and leave the other half alive?”

 

“You’re scaring me again.”

 

Moriarty got up from his chair and gave Natasha a big hug.

 

“It doesn’t matter what I do to other people. I would never, ever hurt you. I love you. Promise.”

 

“Pinky promise?

 

Moriarty had never heard of a pinky promise. He figured it was the wrong time to ask.

 

“Yes. Pinky promise. And thumb promise. And big toe promise.”

 

Natasha giggled for real.

 

“You’re so silly, Daddy. How can a silly person kill people?”

 

“Got me. How can a serious person kill people? Police are very serious people and part of their job is to kill people if they have to. Same is true of soldiers.”

 

Natasha yawned.

 

“I’m tired. Can I take a nap now?”

 

“Sure. It’s been a long morning. Let’s go.”

 

“One more thing.” She looked at Sherlock.

 

“You’re mean and I don’t like you whether you kill people or not.”

 

“Point taken.”

 

“Let’s take you to bed, hon. I think after this  **exciting**  morning” he glared at Sherlock "you could use a nap."

 

“Can I sleep with Swan?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Do you ever sleep with Goose?”

 

“Actually, yes. Sometimes I do sleep with Goose. She’s warm and soft.”

 

“Lucky. Can I get a goose too?”

 

“I think one goose per family is quite enough. Take a look at the books here. Pick one and I’ll read to you in your room.”

 

“Really? I left  _Crime and Punishment_  at home and I really want to finish it.”

 

“Perfect. We can read about someone who kills just to see what it’s like and then has to deal with it for the rest of his life. You know. The  _Punishment_  part. Killing’s not as black and white as you think.”

 

“I know. Rasklonicoff, I mean Raskcinloff, I mean, you know who I mean. He killed one person for fun and then felt terrible about having to kill another person. I never understood that part.”

 

“Then maybe we’ll start from the beginning and any time you’re confused, ask me and I’ll explain.”

 

“Okay. I’ll get ready for a nap and then you can come read to me.”

 

“I’ll come with you.”

 

“Daddy, you can’t. I’m a girl. You can’t watch me change into pajamas.”

 

“Oopsies. I didn't think you wore pajamas for naps. Just call out or come get me when you’re ready.”

 

“Daddy?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I don’t like that you kill people but I still love you.”

 

“I don’t like strawberry ice cream but I still love you.”

 

“You are the silliest man I’ve ever met. You kill people and don’t like the best flavour ice cream and you have a pet goose and maybe a ghost." She glared at Sherlock. "I love you anyhow.”

 

“Me too, kiddo. Go get ready.”

 

Sherlock had been watching this entire conversation from the other chair in the library. “Interesting. But incredibly annoying. I knew there was a reason I never wanted children.”

 

“The entire world is better off with you not having children. But if you so much as touch Natasha, or scare her, which you already did by the way and you owe her an apology, I promise that I will kill you. Seriously. You know I mean it. And I’ll enjoy every second of it. Watch your step.”

 

“I’m thinking of moving back to Baker Street.”

 

“I’m thinking that’s an excellent idea.”

 

“But then who would you have sex with? Goose? Natasha?”

 

Moriarty jumped up and hit Sherlock in the face. Not a slap. A punch. A really hard punch.

 

“Get out of here now. I mean it. NOW. Unless you want another black eye to match.”

 

Sherlock gave Moriarty a disgusted look and left the library. He started toward Jim’s bedroom to collect his belongings.

 

“Now means  **NOW.** Get out. I mean it. I don’t want to see your face.”

 

Sherlock slammed the front door behind him.

 

“Asinine,” Moriarty said to no one in particular.

 

“Daddy, I’m ready,” Natasha called.

 

"On my way. And guess what? My flatmate just moved out."

 

"Thank you, Daddy."

 

Moriarty and Goose entered Natasha's bedroom to read  _Crime and Punishment._  He was looking forward to it. And for now, at least, he was delighted to have Sherlock out of his home. He didn’t know what would happen in the future, but he was quite content with the idea of reading to Natasha.  _Crime and Punishment_  was a very apropos choice. He hoped he could pull off being a father. At the moment, he wasn’t very sure. But he really wanted to.


	17. Imprinting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty finds he has a goose and a detective imprinted on him.

It had been four weeks since Moriarty had seen Sherlock. Probably. He did notice a few tall bent-over women on his daily Goose walks, but wrote them off as tall bent-over women. _Not paranoia. That would be useless. Fear? Nah. Fear for Natasha? Never. Sherlock knows quite well the consequences of frightening or even seeing Natasha. He knows I meant it when I said I’d kill him if he scares Natasha again. So what the bloody hell is going on?_

Meanwhile, Natasha was settling in just fine. Moriarty had forgotten that her school was not new to her. It took a week to organize the temporary building while the school was being repaired. It didn’t seem to bother her. During the time off from school, Moriarty had taken Natasha to the London Eye, the local park, the movies, and an ice-cream parlor, though he was developing an irrational fear of ice-cream parlors. He wasn’t sure what dad things were supposed to be like, so he asked his daughter each morning what she’d like to do. At first this was fun, but after a while she was tired of a non-vacation vacation and preferred to stay home with her dad and Goose and read or watch telly.

 

Moriarty still got regular calls on his kill phone. He took them in his private bathroom off his bedroom, spoke quietly, and hoped Natasha wouldn’t hear. He only accepted jobs that didn’t require his leaving the house. Most of his jobs could be easily carried out from home. He did have to give up the fun little pranks, some of which involved just a teeny bit of killing. Either he hid the calls well, or Natasha decided to ignore them. She was extraordinarily savvy and brilliant for her age. She seemed to be happy, and never spoke again of ghosts or killing.

 

She did ask what had happened to her dad’s flatmate. He told her the truth. He’d been so angry at Sherlock’s behavior upon meeting his daughter that he’d kicked his flat mate out. Natasha was quite pleased with the situation, and she she mentioned it only once. "Out of sight, out of mind. No sense wasting thought on what was gone."

In this respect she was so much like Sherlock, Moriarty was more than a bit uncomfortable. Had he caused her to think like Sherlock? Had he caused her to be like Sherlock? He thought not. She came home on time from the temporary school, seemed happy at school and happy to be living with her dad. _Seemed_ being the operative word. Was she miserable, or getting into trouble, or killing small animals and starting fires?

 

No. Of course not. But then again, Moriarty did have reason to worry. Her mother was a selfish asshole and he was, well, he was Sir Dangerous, the Weathervane. He had begun to blow with the wind, without an answer. The downside of being changeable. Most of the time he was floating with the breeze. Not in a fun way. In an _am I ruining my daughter for life?_ way. _I guess parental hormones must be very strong; I never thought I’d fall in love with my daughter. Hell, I never thought I’d get to know my daughter._ _I never even thought about her._

 

Secretly, he thought about how much he missed Sherlock. But the bastard hadn’t shown up in four weeks. _Does this mean he wants me totally out of my life? Is that what he really wants? So call him, idiot. Text him. See if he answers. Call him from his doorway and make sure you have both pistols on you. Shout out at him from his doorway. Throw pebbles at his window._

A few weeks after the fire, Natasha asked if she could sleep over at a friend’s on a Friday night. Moriarty had forgotten she’d gone to the same school for years. Of course she had friends. Sometimes they came over to visit. Sometimes she’d text and ask if she could visit a friend. Moriarty’s heart sank each time she didn’t come straight home. He couldn’t even pick up his daughter and her friend and drive them to the friend’s house. The first time he tried that, Natasha was utterly humiliated. So he put up with anxiety. He did make Natasha call him when she arrived at a friend’s house. He also insisted she text him when she was ready to leave, and he always picked her up.

 

A sleepover, though? What if one of the parents was like him? A killer. What if one of the parents liked to kill their daughter’s friends while they were sleeping over? Oh, come off it, Jim. Why would a parent do that? He thought of his kill phone, and reassured himself it was merely a tool of his profession, and of course he’d never use it to hurt his daughter or her friends. The one time he’d shown up at one of Natasha’s friend’s homes, just to be sure his daughter hadn’t left anything crucial at home, Natasha’s greeting was less than friendly. Something like “Daddy, what are **you** doing here? I’m fine. You’re embarrassing me. Go. Please go.” So he figured it would be best to stay away from the sleepover.

 

That was why he woke up with a full day and night free. He was used to getting up quite early to get Natasha ready for school. Even if he planned to call Sherlock, which he didn’t. It was an insanely early hour to be awake. He tried to fall back asleep, but just lay in bed worrying. _Stop it, Jim. Nothing dangerous is going to happen to Natasha._ After a while he gave up, took a shower, and got dressed. He decided to take Goose on an early walk. He was starting to feel bad about not letting her swim in a pond, but if he did, he’d surely lose her. _Isn’t that selfish, though? I can’t warp her life to meet my own needs. She’s not an_ ordinary _goose. There’s no reason to kill her. I love her. But I’m Sir Dangerous. Sir Mildly annoying. Sir Dad Who Loves his Daughter and his Goose. How humiliating, OK. This will be the first good deed of the Goose God. Let her free._

 

They prepared for their daily walk. Goose waddled after Moriarty into the elevator, through the lobby, and out the door. Instead of their usual walk, Moriarty took a cab to the pond where he’d found Goose. It was a long walk, and he didn’t want to tire her out. When they arrived, Goose seemed perplexed. She clearly wanted to swim, but she just as clearly didn’t want to leave Moriarty. “I’m not going in with you this time, so don’t get any ideas.” Goose waddled one or two metres away, looked back and Moriarty, and stopped. _Okay, okay, I’ll walk you to the water’s edge._ Goose followed Moriarty and stopped next to him just at the edge of the pond. Moriarty realised he really didn’t want to let Goose go. But he should get used to doing things for others now that he had a daughter. Things other than killing.He’d previously never even considered that possibility. Had he done so, he’d surely have thought _ordinary_ people can take care of themselves _. What the hell is happening to me?_ He picked up Goose and set her in the pond. She waddled in, then began to swim, keeping a close eye on Moriarty.

 

“Go! Swim away! You’re free!”

 

Goose didn’t move.

 

“You’re a goose. You’re supposed to swim. Swim. Be happy!”

 

Goose didn’t move.

 

“Ok. I’ll leave. Bye, Goose. It’s been fun.”

 

He turned his back on the pond and began walking away. Slowly. He hadn’t realised he was capable of loving a goose so much. He felt the same way as when he missed Natasha or Sherlock. He’d had no idea what love felt like. Painful. And delicious. He forced himself to keep walking and not turn around. As he neared the street, he felt three hard nips on his leg. He turned around and saw Goose staring up at him, with a confused and angry look.

 

“Oh, Goose. Silly Goose. Don’t you want to swim into the wild? The wild of this little pond? You were born to swim here.”

 

Apparently not. Goose sat down on his feet and refused to let him walk.

 

“Okay, okay Goose.” He picked her up and she nuzzled comfortably into his armpit. _I thought this imprinting thing was just till you grew up. Is it going to last forever?_ He awkwardly held his phone without dropping Goose, and read about goose imprinting. He was not impressed. “So you think you’re human, eh? Want to get a job? Want to work for me as an accomplice? Want to stay with me forever? I wouldn’t.”

 

Goose nuzzled further into Moriarty’s armpit, unintentionally tickling him. _I have a goose. For life. This goose will pine for me forever and be mean to other geese unless she’s with me. Bloody hell. I just wanted to save a hatchling, not get married to a goose._ But rather than put Goose on the ground, he squeezed her and buried his head in her feathers. _Sir Dangerous is dead. I’ve become Sir Daddy to a little girl and a goose. I didn’t expect them to eat my life._ Moriarty sat down on a bench and Goose jumped off, investigating the apparently fascinating dirt and leaves and grass underneath the bench _._ She began waddling quickly to the pond, then extended her feathers and actually flew. She waited at the edge of the pond for Moriarty. He sighed, sat down next to the pond, no doubt ruining his trousers, and reassured Goose he wasn’t going anywhere. She swam for a long time, obviously enjoying herself. Although she did check on Moriarty every few minutes.

 

Another goose approached her. She hissed so loudly that she scared the other goose. She swam like she was going for the Olympic Gold Goose medal. She jumped out of the water, shook her feathers, giving Moriarty a nice little outdoor shower, and sat down next to him. _A killer with a daughter and a goose who thinks she’s human. How divine. This is **not** me.” _After a while Moriarty and Goose walked back to the street. Moriarty hailed a taxi, didn’t give a damn about the cabbie’s opinion on transporting a goose, and went home. Goose honked and honked until Moriarty remembered he’d forgotten to feed her this morning. He gave her food and water, and lay down on the living room couch. A few minutes later Goose settled on his chest.

 

Attempting to fall back asleep didn’t help. Moriarty knew there was only one thing that could help. He chastised himself and texted Sherlock.

 

**Text:**

_Hi?  
_ _JM_

 

There was a long pause. Moriarty was both disappointed and relieved. His phone buzzed.

 

**Text:**

_Why are U texting me?  
_ _SH_

**Text:**

_I wanted to C U?  
_ _JM_

**Text:**

_Y?  
_ _SH_

**Text:**

_Take a wild guess  
_ _JM_

  
  
**Text:**

 _I miss U  
_ _I stupidly thought U might miss me  
_ _Bye then_  
JM

Moriarty hung up.

 

Moriarty had no idea if texting had been a good idea. He had no idea whether inviting Sherlock had been a good idea. He had no idea if anything was a good idea. He got up and poured himself some whiskey. Which had been happening more and more frequently lately. He hated himself for drinking too much, but it seemed necessary to turn off his mind. Of course he never drank when he was with Natasha, but she went to bed pretty early, and was at school all day. His new life was difficult. He wanted Sherlock.

 

**Text:**

_U still home?  
_ _JM_

**Text:**

_Must I come immediately?  
_ _SH_

**Text:**

_As long as it’s now  
_ _JM_

**Text:**

_C U later  
_ _SH_

 

Someone knocked on the door sometime later. Moriarty had lost track of time. He hated himself. He was waiting for Sherlock as if he were waiting to pick up a date for a prom. _Bloody hell. Me at a prom? Maybe if I came in disguise as Carrie._ He was torn between feeling like an utter idiot and really wanting to see Sherlock He lay down on the couch. The bell rang. “Ok, ok. I’m coming.” He opened the door. Not surprisingly, Sherlock was standing outside. Jim was taken aback by his reaction. Such a sharp jaw. Such sharp cheekbones. Such beautiful curls. Sherlock hated his curls, but Moriarty loved them. He’d miss them if they were gone. He had missed them when they were gone.

 

He hadn’t realised how very much he’d missed those curls. And other curls.

 

“Are you planning to let me in, or have you decided I’d make an excellent statue?”

 

“Oh. Right. Come in.”

 

Sherlock closed the door quietly behind him.

 

“Hey, Natasha’s not even here. No need to sneak around.”

 

“I wasn’t sneaking around. You asked me to come so I did.”

 

Sherlock took off his coat and hung it on an everything rack, containing jackets, sweaters, a scarf and other outdoor clothes. He remained standing, looking down at Moriarty with an inscrutable expression. Moriarty’s brain and body were so glad to see Sherlock, he could have thrown his clothes out the window for all he cared. All he wanted to do was hug Sherlock so tightly he couldn’t breathe. Instead he poured a generous glass of absinthe over ice.

 

“Want one?”

 

“Have you already forgotten that I hate alcohol?”

 

“No. I was just, just being a polite host.” Moriarty downed the absinthe, even though it burned his throat because the ice cubes hadn’t had a chance to melt. He poured another.

 

“I just told you I hate-“

 

“It’s for me. I should have asked you to bring some cocaine for yourself. I forgot.”

 

Moriarty was fixed on Sherlock’s penetrating blue eyes.

 

“Will they turn green soon?”

 

“I have no idea. I don’t spend a lot of time looking at my eyes. I’m tired. May I sit down?

 

“Yes. Of course.” Moriarty’s face blushed. The more he thought about how stupid he was being, the redder his cheeks became. “Take a seat.”

 

Sherlock lay down on the couch, tenting his hands.

 

“Would you mind taking off your shoes?

  
  
Sherlock toed them off and relaxed.

 

“So. Any particular reason you asked me over?”

 

“I miss you. Everyone else is so banal. Except Natasha, and she’s an eight-year-old. Didn’t you miss me? Just a teeny tiny bit?”

 

“I missed you. I did not miss Goose or Natasha.”

 

“Hey. Don’t equate Goose with Natasha, unless you want me to kick you out again.”

 

“Honestly, I couldn’t care less.”

 

“Then why did you come?”

 

“I was bored.”

 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. Couldn’t you at least make up a less hurtful reason.”

 

“I suppose I could, but I don’t see why.”

 

“Sit up.”

 

“Why? I’m quite comfortable.”

 

**“I said sit up.”**

 

Sherlock sighed and moved his body to a sitting position. Moriarty immediately grabbed his curls, pulled him close, and began kissing Sherlock’s face.

 

“The face is not a particularly satisfying erogenous zone.”

 

“Shut up.” Moriarty pressed his lips hard against Sherlock’s. He carefully inserted his tongue, not wanting to be bit again. This time, Sherlock cooperated. Moriarty ripped Sherlock’s shirt open, not caring about buttons. He took off his own T-shirt and lay on top of Sherlock, luxuriously enjoying the touch of his skin. He gently kissed Sherlock, moving down from his neck to his shoulder blades to his stomach and below. Sherlock moaned, and grabbed Moriarty’s hand to put it where it was most appreciated.

 

“Not yet. Did I tell you to wait? Maybe not. WAIT.”

 

Sherlock remained still as Moriarty kissed him lower down. Sherlock was so hard he practically hit Moriarty in the face. He waited, perfectly still, while Moriarty spit on a finger and inserted it into Sherlock’s ass. Sherlock moaned and began rocking with Moriarty.

 

Slap. “Did I tell you to move?”

 

Sherlock breathed out a tiny “no.”

 

“Then stay the fuck still and wait.”

 

Sherlock lay as still as he could, though it was easier said than done.

 

Moriarty moved his finger closer into Sherlock, heard a gasp, and gently, teasingly, licked Sherlock’s cock. He couldn’t help sighing and moving closer to Moriarty.

 

Slap. “What did I just tell you?”

 

“Don’t move,” Sherlock said with difficulty.

 

“Do you want it now?”

 

“God yes.”

 

“Don’t move.”

 

“Please.”

 

Slap. “Don’t beg.”

 

Moriarty slipped in another finger. Sherlock moaned and moved his ass.

 

“ **STOP!** Are you an idiot? I said stay still.” Sherlock tried. Moriarty took him in his mouth and made it pretty damn hard for Sherlock to stay still. Moriarty fucked him with his mouth, until Sherlock couldn’t stay still any longer. He pushed further into Moriarty’s mouth, groaned, and came.

 

“See? That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Moriarty slapped him on the face again. “Pay attention and next time maybe I won’t have to slap you.”

 

Enough of Sir Dangerous the Sadist. Moriarty took off his trousers and pants, and collapsed on Sherlock’s belly. He began moving up and down, pressing himself into the only part of Sherlock that could possibly be soft. Sherlock put his arms on Moriarty’s shoulders. Moriarty pushed him off and kept moving into Sherlock’s belly. _Couldn’t he be fatter? Or at least squishier?_ Moriarty kept pushing, stopping when he felt close to coming, and pushing again. He suddenly gasped, pushed harder, and groaned. He licked his come off Sherlock’s body, and collapsed on him again.

 

“Jim,” Sherlock said, “why are you doing this?”

 

“Cause it’s fun? Cause you ran out of my flat last time without even saying goodbye? Cause it’s been an entire bloody month since you left and I need to see you?”

 

“Why did you wait a month?

 

“Why did you?”

 

“Because I assumed I was not welcome.”

 

“Don’t you know yet not to assume anything with me?”

 

Moriarty got up and put on his pants, trousers, and a t-shirt. Sherlock the Master Detective took this as a clue and got dressed. Moriarty was pouring himself a small glass of absinthe.

 

“If you’re going to do that, do it right.” Sherlock searched through his coat and came up with a small baggie.

 

“I hate cocaine. Take it yourself."

 

“It’s not cocaine. It’s opium. I bought some for you because I noticed a bottle of absinthe in your liquor cabinet and figured I might as well give you a chance to do it properly.”

 

“What were you doing looking through my liquor cabinet?”

 

“I’m a detective. I was curious.” He poured some of the contents into Moriarty’s drink, added a sugar cube which he’d brought from home, not sure if Moriarty would have any.

 

Moriarty picked up the glass.

 

“Not yet. Give it time to settle.”

 

A minute later Moriarty sipped from the glass. Unbeknownst to him, he was wearing his surprised face.

 

“This is bloody delicious. Sure you don’t want some?”

 

“I’d rather stick to the opium.”

 

They continued to partake until neither one could move very reliably. They flopped back down on the couch and watched _Wheel of Fortune._ Sherlock kindly yelled out the letters and seemed to take out a year’s worth of deprivation on the contestants.

 

“Stupid _ordinary_ show. I fail to see how people can find it difficult to supply these answers. Jim? Jim?”

 

Moriarty had fallen asleep on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock picked him up very gently and moved him to bed. Then, when he was certain Moriarty was asleep, he hugged him and spooned him and took tiny bites of his neck. Moriarty slept through it all, though he had a smile on his face. For the first time in his life, Sherlock wept. He wanted Moriarty so badly, yet it was hard enough living with a goose. He did not want to live with an eight-year-old girl. He wasn’t sure what this meant, and pondered it for about two seconds until he fell asleep.


	18. Final Flatmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha finds herself alone in Moriarty's flat and becomes more and more frightened. She's only eight.
> 
> She calls Mrs. Hudson, whose number Moriarty gave her for emergencies.
> 
> Sherlock is kicked out of the flat whenever Natasha is awake, and Mrs. Hudson becomes Natasha's caretaker.

Natasha let herself in with a key Moriarty had given her for emergencies. She’d rung her Dad, several times, but there was no answer. She was embarrassed to admit she was frightened. _What if he’s not here? What if I’m all alone? Mum told me not to call America unless there was an emergency. Is this an emergency? It feels like one. It’s really scary to be here all alone._

 

She started to look around the apartment. Goose tentatively followed her. She gave her a hug but she was still scared, bordering on panic _. Okay. I haven’t even looked for him yet._ She checked the library; no daddy. It was easy to check the dining room and the living room. They were all open, in a straight line. She started to whimper. _Maybe he’s making breakfast?_ She looked in the kitchen, but no one was there. She almost tripped over Goose. “At least you’re here, Goose.” She patted Goose on the back of the neck. She heard Goose’s funny goose purr. It didn’t help her feel any better, but she patted her anyhow, so Goose wouldn’t feel sad. Goose give a little honk.

 

She knew Goose’s food was in her daddy’s bathroom, off his bedroom. But all of it? She opened some cupboards, her hands shaking, and found a huge bag of goose food. She looked around for a bowl, found a few, and gave Goose some food and water _. Mum always told me that doing good for others was the right thing. But is that true for geese? Come to think of it, I’ve never seen my mum doing good things for anyone. Maybe I should pray.”_

 

Natasha had no idea how to pray. Her mum never took her to church, or prayed at all, as far as Natasha could see. Still she tried it. She got down on her knees and wondered what it meant to pray. She thought it had to do with God. But who was God? Her mum never told her. So she made up a prayer. _God, this is Natasha. I’m only eight and I’m so alone. Where’s Daddy? Please God, let me find Daddy._

_Oh, and thank you. Bless you. No, that’s what you say when people sneeze. I hope you don’t mind, God._

Prayer didn’t make her feel better at all. God didn’t talk back. _That was rude of him,_ she thought.

 

Natasha had looked everywhere but her daddy’s bedroom. He’d told her never to come into his bedroom; that the bedroom was daddy’s private space. But she was so scared. _What if he’s gone?_ She was so scared she started to cry. She grabbed Goose for comfort but Goose just kicked her away _._

_What should I do? Should I call the police? No. I’m eight years old. Lots of eight-year-olds stay home alone._ That didn’t comfort her in the least. She remembered that her daddy had given her a lady’s phone number from where Sherlock used to live, but she was afraid to call.. She wanted to knock on the bedroom door but she knew she shouldn’t. She was panting with fear, like a dog. _“I’m not a dog. I’m just a little girl. Should I pant louder?”_ She tried, but it made her cry even worse, and it was hard to breathe. _“I’m being a little baby. There’s nothing scary here. No ghosts. No little old ladies that look like they’re from Oz.”_

Tears were running down her face. _What if I went into Daddy’s bedroom? Would he hate me? Would he kick me out? What would happen to me then?_ She checked her phone and thought about the lady to call in an emergency. Tears were running down her face. She punched in the number, feeling embarrassed and afraid.

 

“Hello?” Mrs Hudson heard a very quiet, hesitant sound.

 

“Who’s calling?” the lady said. Natasha thought she should hang up and leave the lady alone. She sounded nice.

 

“Um, erm, I forgot your name,” she said, feeling stupid. She sat on the couch, as if it were some kind of talisman that would make the lady help her.

 

“It’s Mrs Hudson, dear.”

 

“Oh right. Daddy said to call you if I’m really scared. I’m terrified. I’m here all alone and I’m only eight and it’s so scary.” Natasha’s voice was barely audible through her tears.

 

“I’m Natasha Price. My Daddy lives here. He used to have a flatmate but he kicked him out. I mean, daddy kicked the flatmate out. I’m all alone and I’m so scared. Are you the police?

 

“No no,” said Mrs Husdon. “Nothing like that, dearie. But I think I now who you are. Are you in a penthouse?”

 

“I don’t know. Natasha started crying.

 

“It’s okay, dear. Tell me, what’s your daddy’s name?”

 

“Daddy. I mean, Jim.”

 

“Is there by any chance another man there, called Sherlock?”

 

“I don’t know. I hate Sherlock. He’s a ghost and he’s mean. I’m so scared, Mrs Howard. I mean Mrs Hudson. Daddy said not to call you except it it’s an emergency. I’m not even sure what an emergency is.” Natasha was sobbing now.

 

“Poor thing. I know exactly who you are, darling. You’re Jim Moriarty’s daughter. Sherlock told me.”

 

“Don’t even say Sher- his name, Mrs Hudson. I’m not supposed to.”

 

Mrs. Hudson let out a long sigh.

 

“Dearie, do you know where you are?”

 

“Daddy’s penthouse.”

 

“Sweetie, there are a lot of penthouses in London. What do you see out the window?”

 

“Everything. Buildings and a river and some rooftops and can you come over? I’m so scared.”

 

“It will all be alright, honey. I’ll send for a taxi for you to come stay with me until your Daddy comes home.”

 

“Da-daddy might be in his bedroom. He told me never to go in there.”

 

“Well for goodness sake. Go check if he’s there.”

 

“But what if he gets mad?”

 

“Oh honey. I’ll give him a good spanking if he’s done this to you. Go ahead, love. Knock on the bedroom door.”

 

“I’m afraid to.”

 

“I know dearie. Just do it. I’ll stay on the phone.”

 

“Okay. Are you sure? He gets so mean when he’s angry. Not Daddy. The “S” man.”

 

“That’s ok. I’ll yell at him over your phone if I need to.”

 

“Okay. If he’s really angry, can I say you told me to do it?”

 

“Say whatever you want, dearie. I can’t believe a good father would do this to you.”

 

“He’s a good dad. I love him. But I’m still scared of the “S” man.”

 

“That’s okay, dear. Sometimes the right thing to do is really scary.”

 

“Okay. But you’ll be on the line, right?”

  

“Of course. Now go knock on the bedroom door.”

 

Natasha hesitantly knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again, louder. No answer. She screamed “Daddy!” at the top of her lungs. She heard voices inside.

 

_Oh my God. I forgot all about Natasha! What time is it?_

 

Moriarty looked at his phone. _Only 11:30? That’s weird. She was supposed to stay all afternoon.”_

 

“Cover yourself up,” he yelled at Sherlock, who was still asleep.

 

“I said **cover yourself up**.” No response. “ **Bloody hell**. **Sherlock, COVER YOURSELF UP!** ”

 

“Tash, is that you?” He heard her quietly talking to someone else.

 

“It’s okay now. I hear Daddy.”

 

“No dearie, it’s definitely not okay. Not at all. You’re safe, honey, but your daddy needs a good talking to. Leaving an eight-year-old to think she was all alone in his flat. I can’t imagine why he did that. Do you know your daddy’s address?”

 

“Of course. I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but I guess I can tell you.” Natasha recited the address.

 

“Thank you, darling. You’re doing just fine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

 

Natasha started crying in earnest. “Don’t hang up!” She blew her nose on her pajama sleeve.

 

“Are you really coming?” Natasha was crying into the phone.

 

“Yes, dear. A street full of elephants couldn’t keep me away.”

 

Natasha giggled through her tears.

 

“Thank you, nice lady. Sorry, I forgot your name again.”

 

“That’s okay. It’s Mrs Hudson. Remember there’s nothing to be afraid of. And I’ll be there in a swish of a lamb’s tale. I have to hang up now so that I can take a taxi to see you. Goodbye, sweetie. I’ll be there soon.”

 

The phone went dead.

 

\-- ~ --

 

 

Moriarty appeared at his door, wearing his pajama bottoms backwards.

 

“Tash, what are you doing here? I told you never to come into my bedroom without knocking first.”

 

“I did! I knocked over and over so hard. And I didn’t knock till I made sure you weren’t in the rest of the flat. Don’t get mad at me, please! I tried. It’s just so scary out there. Please don’t hit me. Please? I’ll do anything you say. Just don’t hit me.”

 

Moriarty was overflowing with conflicting emotions. _Who said psychopaths can’t feel emotions? They obviously aren’t a psychopath themselves._

 

“Hit you? Why would I hit you? Does your mum hit you?”

 

“Sometimes. But it’s a secret. I’m not supposed to tell. Oh. And I had to tell Mrs Hudson your address. I know that’s a secret too but I really wanted her to come.”

 

“That’s okay, Tash You must have been terrified. Come here.” He sat on the bed and made room for his daughter.

 

Natasha sat on the edge of the bed, which had a white duvet cover. It was just like hers, only hers was pink.

 

Moriarty gave her a huge hug and kissed the top of her head. Sitting on the bed provided Natasha with an excellent view of Sherlock. Who was sleeping, naked.

 

Natasha jumped off the bed. “You lied! You said you’d get rid of your flatmate. But he’s right here!!” Natasha spoke loud enough to wake Sherlock.

 

“Honey, he’s not my flatmate anymore. He just came over, uh, for a sleepover.”

 

“When I have sleepovers I keep my pajamas on and sleep in a different bed. Why is he sleeping naked in your bed?

 

Jim put his face in his hands, then immediately took them off. _No point in scaring her further._

 

“Oh Tash, sweetie. When grownups have sleepovers, sometimes they sleep in the same bed. It’s still just a sleepover. Sherlock’s not living here anymore.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you didn’t like him.”

 

“No. Why do grown ups sleep in the same bed?”

 

_This is above my pay grade._

 

“Did your mum ever talk to you about sex?” Jim’s face was bright red and he wanted nothing more than to shoot Sherlock and hide under the duvet.

 

“Of course. She said when a man and a woman love each other very much, they kiss a lot and do things with their bodies to show how much they love each other. Sometimes they make a baby. But mum always told me I was too young for sex. I have to wait till I’m older and not let anyone do that to me now. Are you and Sherlock trying to make a baby?”

 

 _Oh bloody hell. Why is this_ my _job?_ He pulled the covers up to make sure he was covered. He fought a desperate need to hide under the duvet.

 

“No, honey. Your mum was right. Sort of. It takes a man and a woman to make a baby.”

 

“Then why are you having sex with Sherlock?”

 

_Oh god. A goose was bad enough._

 

“That’s not the only reason people have sex. They also have sex if they love each other and want to love each other with their bodies.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Sherlock had woken up and immediately started talking. “Your dad meant that when adults are in love, their bodies are in love, too. Usually the man puts his penis in the woman’s vagina. But with two men-”

 

“ **SHUT UP SHERLOCK. NOW!** ”

 

“I’m confused. How come Sherlock is naked? Do you have to be naked for sex?

 

Jim interrupted Sherlock with a killer glance.

 

“It’s more than that.”

 

“How?”

 

“Tell you what. In a few years, I’ll explain it all to you in detail. Promise.”

 

Moriarty’s pajamas kept falling down and he pulled up the duvet to cover himself.

 

“Daddy, your pajamas keep falling off because you have them on backwards”

 

“Do I? Oh. I guess I should fix that. In the bathroom. With the door shut.”

 

Natasha burst into tears. “Don’t hate me, Daddy. I didn’t know.”

 

Jim sighed. “I know, kiddo. Not your fault. Give me a minute to get dressed properly.”

 

Natasha glared at Sherlock.

 

“I thought Daddy said he wasn’t going to have you as a fat mate anymore.”

 

Sherlock chuckled. “I’m not his fat mate. In fact, I I’ve been told I’m pretty skinny.”

 

“I meant flatmate. You’re very skinny. As long as you’re not Daddy’s flatmate, I guess I don’t care if you two do sex. But I don’t want you here. I don’t even want to see you here. I hate you.”

 

“I’m not your daddy’s flatmate anymore, I just came for a sleepover. I’ll be leaving soon. Did you see me in the last month?”

 

Natasha thought about it. “No.”

 

“That’s cause I didn’t want you to see me. I know you’re afraid of me, though I can’t imagine why. You came home early. I meant to be gone before you came home.”

 

Natasha glared at him. “My friend cut herself with a knife making breakfast and had to go to hospital. Her mom sent me home in a taxi. That’s why I’m early. And you should get dressed, too.”

 

“I will. But you have to leave first.”

 

Natasha looked at him with confusion all over her face.

 

“But I’ve already seen you naked. Why does it matter?”

 

“Go. I’ll get dressed as soon as you leave.”

 

_ _ ~_ _

 

 

The doorbell rang three times in a row. Natasha opened it.

 

“We have to wait for Daddy and Sherlock to get dressed.”

 

“Oh dear. _She did her best to distract Natasha._ Did Sherlock tell you about when I opened his fridge for a snack and I found a human head inside? In the fridge. With the food. Can you imagine?”

 

“Eeww.”

 

“Well, dear, at least it was dead.”

 

“That’s disgusting. Was the head attached to a body?”

 

“Oh no, dearie. Just the head.”

 

Natasha was turning white. “You’re scaring me.”

 

“Don’t fret about it, darling. He got the head from a morgue.”

 

“What’s a morg?”

 

“It’s a place where dead bodies are stored. It’s very cold. Kind of like a big refrigerator.”

 

“Does he usually leave body parts in the fridge?”

 

“Oh no, dear. And that was his fridge. He’d never leave any in your fridge, or I’d slap his bottom.”

 

Natasha started laughing.

 

“It really isn’t funny, dearie. Imagine if he had a plate of cheese underneath. I hate to think what would happen to that poor cheese.”

 

“The cheese wouldn’t care.”

 

“Of course not. I meant the human eating the cheese would care. Except for Sherlock. He’s just as likely to eat a bite of head as a bite of cheese.”

 

“That’s disgusting.”

 

“Well, that’s Sherlock, dear.”

 

_ _ ~_ _

 

 

Moriarty came out of the bedroom, tugging at his pajama bottoms, which he’d managed to put on backwards again.

 

Natasha giggled.

 

“Your pajama bottoms are still on backwards, Daddy.”

 

“They are? I hate all these Chinese labels. How am I supposed to figure out which is front and which is back?”

 

“I think there’s a place in front for you to pee.”

 

“Tash! Let’s please not discuss the engineering of my pajama pants.” Moriarty yawned. “Are you Mrs Hudson? What are you doing here?”

 

“Pleasure to meet you too, dear. You daughter called me because she thought she was _all alone in your flat and she was terrified.”_

 

“She wasn’t all alone. Sherlock and I were here.”

 

“In your bedroom. Which you told her never to enter. Really, Moriarty. I assume you're Moriarty. Sherlock was right. You're very irresponsible I’d have thought you’d have told her to at least knock first. The poor thing was terrified.”

 

“I did knock!” Natasha interrupted. “But you didn’t hear me.”

 

“I’m sorry, Tash. I was sleeping. “What’s your favorite song?”

 

“ _Bohemian Rhapsody_.”

 

Moriarty tried not to laugh. “If you’re scared, you can always sing _Bohemian Rhapsody_ at the top of your lungs in front of my bedroom door. Anytime.”

 

“Will _he_ be there?

 

Moriarty sighed. “Probably not. But he’s safe. He doesn’t bite.”

 

Just then Goose came in, honking, to investigate the newcomer.

 

“Oh my goodness gracious! Is that a goose?”

 

Goose honked at Mrs Hudson, as if she were thinking “I’m a human. Just like you.”

 

“What on earth are you doing with a goose? Is it one of Sherlock’s experiments?”

 

“No!” Natasha shouted. “Goose is Daddy’s pet. And mine.”

 

Mrs Hudson stepped back from Goose, as if she were in mortal danger.

 

“She won’t hurt you. Daddy found her when she was hatching all alone, and took her home. She’s printed on Daddy.”

 

“Printed? Did your father get a tattoo of a goose?”

 

Moriarty laughed. “She meant imprinted. Apparently whoever feeds a baby goose first, it thinks you’re its mother. I’m human. Goose here is always going to think she’s a funny-looking human, and I’m her mother.”

 

“Goodness! Does she-Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

 

Sherlock ambled into the room, fully dressed.

 

“Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson spoke in a very stern voice. “It seems you’ve been getting into all sorts of trouble since you’ve been gone.”

 

“I’m not the one with a goose.”

 

“You know what I think?” said Moriarty. “I think we all should have some coffee. Do you drink coffee, Tash?”

 

“No. Mummy said that was a grown-up drink, like beer.”

 

“Well, she’s half right. Beer is a grown-up drink. Anyone can drink coffee. Hey Tash. I used to have a different coffee maker. It burned so badly it got all bent and I had to throw it out.”

 

“Why? Was it a goddamn cheap piece of shit?”

 

“Natasha!” said Mrs Hudson. Who taught you to talk like that?”

 

“My mum. Well, she didn’t teach me. She just talks like that.”

 

“Oh dear. Your mum says a lot of nasty words. Next time, ask ‘was it poorly made?’ or ‘was there was something wrong with it?’ ”

 

“I was what was wrong with it. I forgot to put in the water.”

 

“Well for goodness’ sake. Would you like me to make the coffee?”

 

“That’s ok. I think I’ve got it down by now.” Moriarty set up three plates and coffee cups and biscuits on the marble counter. He pulled out three of the black cushioned stools. “I think you should leave **now** , Sherlock.”

 

“My thoughts exactly. I have a very dubious welcome here.”

 

“Extremely dubious. Leave. I’ll text you later. About sleepovers.”

 

“But the question is,” Sherlock said as he was putting on his coat, “How did the bottom of the pot get warped while the top stayed fine?” Sherlock was fascinated. “I’d think they’d be made of the same material. Did you forget to put in coffee grounds?”

 

“No. Just the water. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs Hudson. I can’t thank you enough.”

 

Moriarty pushed Sherlock toward the coats.

 

“If you remembered the coffee grounds, then the top of the machine should have melted too. It’s made to withstand hot water.”

 

“ **Goodbye, Jim**.”

 

“Strange. Did you try that with your new coffee maker?

 

“Sherlock. Did you not hear me? Goodbye. **Go. LEAVE.”**

 

Sherlock put on his scarf and left, muttering to himself about coffee makers.

 

Meanwhile, Moriarty’s coffee maker was finished. He poured a cup for Mrs Hudson. “How do you take it?”

 

“Cream and two sugars, dear.”

 

He added the cream and sugar and slid the cup over the black marble surface to Mrs Hudson. He then poured half a cup for Natasha, and filled the rest with milk and sugar. He poured his own black.

 

“So what do you think, Tash?”

 

She took a dubious sip. “Oh. It’s good. It’s like coffee-flavoured ice cream. And the milk isn’t sour.”

 

“I told you that doesn’t usually happen. And with Sherlock gone, I think it will happen far less frequently. But it’s always a good idea to sniff the milk first.”

 

“Then why didn’t you sniff it the first time?”

 

“I forgot Sherlock was here.”

 

They finished their coffee and moved to the living room.

 

“Daddy?”

 

Mrs Hudson started to speak at the same time. “My, this is a lovely couch, Professor Moriarty. So comfy. How do you keep it so white?”

 

“Daddy?!”

 

“Just a minute, Tash. Cleaning service.”

 

“Daddy? I hate Sherlock. I never want to see him again, ever. I know he’s your, um, sex friend.”

 

Moriarty and Mrs Hudson exchanged a look and tried not to laugh in front of Natasha.

 

“The word is boyfriend, Tash.”

 

“But can’t he be your boyfriend somewhere else?”

 

“You bet, kiddo. You won’t be seeing him here again. I didn’t mean for you to see him here today. It only happened because you came home early. Hell, I’ll kill him if he ever shows up here again. Except for sleepovers."

 

“No, Daddy! Please don’t kill him. It’s wrong to kill people.”

 

“Tash, we talked about this already. Remember how it’s sometimes okay to kill? Like if you’re a police officer or a soldier?”

 

“But you’re not a police officer or a soldier, and you-“

 

“ **Natasha. Stop.** I’m sure we’re boring Mrs Hudson. We’ll talk more later.”

 

“So, dearie. What will you do if your daddy goes out?”

 

“Be scared. Especially if he’s not in his bedroom.”

 

“Moriarty? What are you going to do if this happens?

 

“Um, get a nanny?

 

“I’m too old to need a nanny. Please don’t.”

 

“What if the nanny is Mrs Hudson?

 

“Ooh. That would be great.”

 

“It might have been better if you’d asked me first. You’re just like Sherlock. The world revolves around you.”

 

“Oh.” Moriarty sighed. _Is being a father ever going to end? Why doesn’t my kill phone ring? I really feel like killing someone right now._

 

“Mrs Hudson. Would you care to take care of Natasha while I’m not at home, or busy?”

 

“That’s much better. I’d actually love to, but our flats are very far away. I don’t fancy getting up at six in the morning.”

 

“Oh, you wouldn’t have to. I was thinking that maybe you could live here?”

 

“I see. And give up my flat?”

 

“No. I’d pay the rent for your flat. And of course I’d pay you.”

 

“I don’t really have a flat, per say. I own the building.”

 

“Oh.” Moriarty stared at his upside-down pajamas. He wondered what the view was from the back. “I could pay the mortgage. And all the bills.”

 

“My, you must be quite rich.”

 

“I get by.”

 

“Please say yes, Mr. Hudson? You’re so nice and I really love you and it would be so cool if you lived here,” Natasha begged.

 

“That’s not fair, Moriarty. Using your own daughter as leverage.”

 

“What’s leverage? Is it like a drink? Like, um, oh right, is it like a beverage?”

 

Mrs Hudson and Moriarty laughed.

 

“I’m not using her for leverage. She really likes you.”

 

“Would I get a salary? I depend on the rent for the mortgage.”

 

“I said I’d pay all the bills _._ Rent or mortgage. And of course I’d give you a salary.”

 

“Well, I would miss Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson said.

 

“What?!” said Moriarty and Natasha.

 

“That’s right. He’d be living on his own. If he can manage **.** ”

 

“Oh, he’d manage just fine. Half the time he doesn’t pay attention when I’m talking to him anyhow.”

 

“So can you stay here? Please? Please? You’re so nice and safe. And I promise I won’t use any of the bad words mum says. Except you’ll have to tell me which words are bad.”

 

“I have just one test, dearie. Come over here.” Mrs Hudson gave Natasha a big hug. When Mrs Hudson tried to pull away, Natasha said “Please? I love you. Please stay. I promise I’ll be good.”

 

“I’m sure you will. It’s not you I’m worried about, honey. It’s Sherlock.”

 

“He’s a grown-up. He’ll be safe on his own.”

 

Mrs Hudson laughed. “But my flat won’t be.”

 

“What do you say, Mrs Hudson? I can absolutely **promise** that he’ll be safe in your flat. Though I can’t promise your flat would be safe. All that would happen is I might spend the night at his, sometimes. Then you’d have to pay attention to Tash.”

 

“Dearie, she’s only eight. I’d have to pay attention to her all the time. She’s such a darling. It would be hard not to pay attention to her.”

 

“What about Goose? She’s really nice and you can train her not to try to eat your feet,” Natasha begged.

 

“Such a sweetie. I think that would be a great relief. You don’t keep human body parts in your fridge, do you?”

 

“Never. Not even in the freezer.”

 

“Oh dear. You’re more like Sherlock than I thought. Let me think about it.”

 

Natasha tried hard to wait.

 

“Have you thought about it enough yet?”

 

_She’s so needy. And such a sweet little girl._

 

“I suppose I could do it. How much salary were you thinking of? Maybe £100 a week?”

 

“That would disappear in a couple of days. How does £500 a week sound?”

 

“My. You really are rich.”

 

_No, I’m desperate._

 

“One thing. I often work out of my bedroom. If you find a mobile there, just ignore it. Don’t even answer. Is that a problem?”

 

“Not having to answer the phone? That sounds like heaven. Do you have another phone so I could ring you if I needed to?”

 

“Yes! He’s got a phone. Please Daddy, please?”

 

“Well, Tash is obviously enamored of you. What do you say?”

 

“My goodness. This is all so sudden. I wouldn’t have to take care of the goose, would I? I refuse to do that.”

 

“No no no! I’ll take care of Goose. I do that when you’re out sometimes, Daddy.”

 

“So you do leave her here alone?

 

“Not for very long, and not that often.”

 

“Once is too often. Okay. I’ll stay with Natasha. Do you have a bed for me?”

 

“Better than that. You can have your own bedroom and bathroom. And you’d be right next door to Tash.”

 

Mrs Hudson sighed. “I suppose it’s the Lord’s work here. Who am I to say no? Certainly. I’d love it.”

 

“Mrs Hudson, is the Lord like God?”

 

“Oh yes. The Lord _is_ God.”

 

“But does he answer? I prayed when I was really scared, and god didn’t say a word.”

 

“It’s not like that, dear. I could teach you more about prayer if you like.”

 

“Yes! I’d love that. Daddy? Please?”

 

Moriarty shrugged. “Why not? I’m certainly not going to do it.”

 

Mrs Hudson replied with “Well, you should. I should teach you both. But I’m not doing your cleaning. Though it does seem a lot cleaner here than Sherlock’s.”

 

“Cleaning service.”

 

“Oh my. Those are my favorite words.”

 

“When can you move in? And Tash, you be quiet. This is a question for Mrs Hudson.”

 

“Next weekend, I should say. Could you help with the heavy furniture?”

 

“All-purpose cleaning service.”

 

“Alright, then. You sure you want me here, Natasha?”

 

Natasha answered by giving Mrs. Hudson a huge hug.

 

“Then I guess it’s settled.” Moriarty reached for his pocket, then remembered he was wearing his pajamas. “Hang on just a minute.”

 

Natasha and Mrs. Hudson laughed when they saw the fly of Moriarty’s backwards pajamas.

 

Moriarty returned with £500.

 

“For your services today.”

 

“Oh my. Thank you.”

 

“No problem. Thank you for staying here with Tash.”

 

“No cooking, right?”

 

“None. I enjoy cooking. When I don’t, there’s always take-out and delivery.”

 

“Well, I’d be honored. No goose care, either?”

 

“Tash likes to do that.”

 

“All right, dear. I’ll do it. I need to get home now and start packing. I don’t have a car.”

 

“Neither do I. That’s what taxis are for.”

 

“And look at the TV, Mrs Hudson. It’s huge.”

 

“How nice. Mine is always on the fritz. Well, I think I should let your daddy get properly dressed now. Thank you very much. I think I’ll enjoy being here.”

 

“Yay!”

 

Moriarty wished he could yell “yay!” without feeling stupid.

 

“Would you like me to hail a taxi for you?”

 

“Not in those clothes, dearie. I’ll see you both on Saturday next.”

 

“Mrs Hudson, you’re a godsend. Thank you so much.”

 

“I’m never going to leave if you two keep talking to me.”

 

Moriarty gave her a small salute. Natasha copied him.

 

“Oh my. I don’t think I’d ever been saluted. Goodbye, sweeties. See you soon.”

 

Moriarty held the door open for her as she left.

 

“Such a gentleman” floated down the hall.

 

_If you only knew..._

 

“Tash, you can never mention to Mrs Hudson that I sometimes have to kill bad people.”

 

“Okay, Daddy. I promise.”

 

“Pinky promise?”

  

Moriarty laughed.

 

“Of course. And toes and fingers too. And thumbs. Did you know thumbs aren’t fingers?”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really. Go watch telly or something while I get dressed. I promise I’ll put my trousers on right.”

 

Natasha giggled.

 

_Can this really work out? God, I hope so. And don’t forget. No killing Mrs Hudson, no matter how annoying she gets. I don’t have to give up killing. Just be a bit more discrete. I don’t want Sherlock running into any more bodies. And I can’t even mention it to Natasha. That’s ok. It’s more of a challenge this way. Challenges are good._

“Daddy, are you ever going to get dressed?”

 

_Challenges can also be a pain in the ass. But anything for Tash._

 

“Okay honey. Be back in a minute.”

 

Natasha’s smile was so huge it warmed his heart. His heart, that he wasn’t supposed to have.

 

 THE END

 


	19. A note from the author

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a real chapter.
> 
> It's further information on the fate of Moriarty and his housemates.

So when I began the previous story, I had no clear idea where it would go, or end.

Turns out I miss the characters too much to say goodbye quite yet.

This is an introduction to a continuation of the previous story.

The new story will be called  _A Study in Moriarty._ It begins several months after the end of the last story,  _ _A Study In Being Non Ordinary__  


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